Captain Fracasse

CAPTAIN FRACASSE

CHAPTER I.

CASTLE MISERY

Upon the southern slope of one of those barren hills that rise abruptly

here and there in the desolate expanse of the Landes, in South-western

France, stood, in the reign of Louis XIII, a gentleman’s residence,

such as abound in Gascony, and which the country people dignify by the

name of château.

Two tall towers, with extinguisher tops, mounted guard at the angles of

the mansion, and gave it rather a feudal air. The deep grooves upon its

facade betrayed the former existence of a draw-bridge, rendered

unnecessary now by the filling up of the moat, while the towers were

draped for more than half their height with a most luxuriant growth of

ivy, whose deep, rich green contrasted happily with the ancient gray

walls.

A traveller, seeing from afar the steep pointed roof and lofty towers

standing out against the sky, above the furze and heather that crowned

the hill-top, would have pronounced it a rather imposing château—the

residence probably of some provincial magnate; but as he drew near

would have quickly found reason to change his opinion. The road which

led to it from the highway was entirely overgrown with moss and weeds,

save a narrow pathway in the centre, though two deep ruts, full of

water, and inhabited by a numerous family of frogs, bore mute witness

to the fact that carriages had once passed that way.

The roof, of dark red tiles, was disfigured by many large,

leprous-looking, yellow patches, while in some places the decayed

rafters had given way, leaving formidable gaps. The numerous

weather-cocks that surmounted the towers and chimneys were so rusted

that they could no longer budge an inch, and pointed persistently in

various directions. The high dormer windows were partially closed by

old wooden shutters, warped, split, and in every stage of dilapidation;

broken stones filled up the loop-holes and openings in the towers; of

the twelve large windows in the front of the house, eight were boarded

up; the remaining four had small diamond-shaped panes of thick,

greenish glass, fitting so loosely in their leaden frames that they

shook and rattled at every breath of wind; between these windows a

great deal of the stucco had fallen off, leaving the rough wall exposed

to view.

Above the grand old entrance door, whose massive stone frame and lintel

retained traces of rich ornamentation, almost obliterated by time and

neglect, was sculptured a coat of arms, now so defaced that the most

accomplished adept in heraldry would not be able to decipher it. Only

one leaf of the great double door was ever opened now, for not many

guests were received or entertained at the château in these days of its

decadence. Swallows had built their nests in every available nook about

it, and but for a slender thread of smoke rising spirally from a

chimney at the back of this dismal, half-ruined mansion, the traveller

would have surely believed it to be uninhabited. This was the only sign

of life visible about the whole place, like the little cloud upon the

mirror from the breath of a dying man, which alone gives evidence that

he still lives.

Upon pushing open the practicable leaf of the great worm-eaten door,

which yielded reluctantly, and creaked dolefully as it turned upon its

rusty hinges, the curious visitor entered a sort of portico, more

ancient than the rest of the building, with fine, large columns of

bluish granite, and a lofty vaulted roof. At the point of intersection

of the arches was a stone shield, bearing the same coat of arms that

was sculptured over the entrance without. This one was in somewhat

better preservation than the other, and seemed to bear something

resembling three golden storks (cigognes) on an azure field; though it

was so much in shadow, and so faded and dingy, that it was impossible

to make it out clearly. Fastened to the wall, at a convenient height

from the ground, were great iron extinguishers, blackened by the smoke

from torches in long by-gone years, and also iron rings, to which the

guests’ horses were made fast in the olden times, when the castle was

in its glory. The dust that lay thick upon them now showed that it was

long since they had been made use of.

From this portico—whence a door on either side opened into the main

building; one leading into a long suite of apartments on the ground

floor, and the other into what had probably been a guard-room—the

explorer passed into an interior court, dismal, damp, and bare. In the

corners nettles and various rank weeds were growing riotously amid the

great heaps of rubbish fallen from the crumbling cornice high above,

and grass had sprung up everywhere in the crevices of the stone

pavement. Opposite the entrance a flight of dilapidated, shaky steps,

with a heavy stone balustrade, led down into a neglected garden, which

was gradually becoming a perfect thicket. Excepting in one small bed,

where a few cabbages were growing, there was no attempt at cultivation,

and nature had reasserted her rights everywhere else in this abandoned

spot, taking, apparently, a fierce delight in effacing all traces of

man’s labour. The fruit trees threw out irregular branches without fear

of the pruning knife; the box, intended to form a narrow border to the

curiously shaped flower-beds and grass-plots, had grown up unchecked

into huge, bushy shrubs, while a great variety of sturdy weeds had

usurped the places formerly devoted to choice plants and beautiful,

fragrant flowers. Brambles, bristling with sharp thorns, which had

thrown their long, straggling arms across the paths, caught and tried

to hold back any bold adventurer who attempted to penetrate into the

mysterious depths of this desolate wilderness. Solitude is averse to

being surprised in dishabille, and surrounds herself with all sorts of

defensive obstacles.

However, the courageous explorer who persisted in following the

ancient, overgrown alley, and was not to be daunted by formidable

briers that tore his hands and clothing, nor low-hanging, closely

interlaced branches that struck him smart blows in the face as he

forced his way through them, would have reached at last a sort of rocky

niche, fancifully arranged as a grotto. Besides the masses of ivy, iris

and gladiolus, that had been carefully planted long ago in the

interstices of the rock, it was draped with a profusion of graceful

wild vines and feathery ferns, which half-veiled the marble statue,

representing some mythological divinity, that still stood in this

lonely retreat. It must have been intended for Flora or Pomona, but now

there were tufts of repulsive, venomous-looking mushrooms in the

pretty, graceful, little basket on her arm, instead of the sculptured

fruit or flowers that should have filled it. Although her nose was

broken, and her fair body disfigured by many dark stains, and overgrown

in part with clinging mosses, it could still plainly be seen that she

had once been very lovely. At her feet was a marble basin, shaped like

a shell, half full of discoloured, stagnant water; the lion’s head just

above it, now almost entirely concealed by a thick curtain of leaves,

no longer poured forth the sparkling stream that used to fall into it

with a musical murmur. This little grotto, with its fountain and

statue, bore witness to former wealth; and also to the aesthetic taste

of some long-dead owner of the domain. The marble goddess was in the

Florentine style of the Renaissance, and probably the work of one of

those Italian sculptors who followed in the train of del Rosso or

Primaticcio, when they came to France at the bidding of that generous

patron of the arts, Francis I; which time was also, apparently, the

epoch of the greatest prosperity of this noble family, now so utterly

fallen into decay.

Behind the grotto rose a high wall, built of stone, crumbling and

mouldy now, but still bearing some broken remains of trellis-work,

evidently intended to be covered with creepers that would entirely

conceal the wall itself with a rich tapestry of verdure. This was the

limit of the garden; beyond stretched the wide expanse of the sandy,

barren Landes, flecked here and there with patches of scanty heather,

and scattered groves of pine trees.

Turning back towards the château it became apparent that this side of

it was even more neglected and ruinous than the one we have already

described; the recent poverty-stricken owners having tried to keep up

appearances as far as possible, and concentrated their efforts upon the

front of their dilapidated abode. In the stable, where were stalls for

twenty horses, a miserable, old, white pony stood at an empty manger,

nibbling disconsolately at a scanty truss of hay, and frequently

turning his sunken, lack-lustre eyes expectantly towards the door. In

front of an extensive kennel, where the lord of the manor used to keep

a whole pack of hounds, a single dog, pathetically thin, lay sleeping

tranquilly and soundly, apparently so accustomed to the unbroken

solitude of the place that he had abandoned all habits of watchfulness.

Entering the château the visitor found himself in a broad and lofty

hall, containing a grand old staircase, with a richly carved, wooden

balustrade—a good deal broken and defaced now, like everything else in

this doleful Castle Misery. The walls had been elaborately frescoed,

representing colossal figures of Hercules supporting brackets upon

which rested the heavily ornamented cornice. Springing from it

fantastic vines climbed upward on the arched ceiling, and above them

the blue sky, faded and dingy, was grotesquely variegated with dark

spots, caused by the water filtering through from the dilapidated roof.

Between the oft-repeated figures of Hercules were frescoed niches,

wherein heads of Roman emperors and other illustrious historical

characters had been depicted in glowing tints; but all were so vague

and dim now that they were but the ghosts of pictures, which should be

described with the shadows of words—ordinary terms are too substantial

to apply to them. The very echoes in this deserted hall seemed startled

and amazed as they repeated and multiplied the unwonted sound of

footsteps.

A door near the head of the first flight of stairs opened into what had

evidently been the great banqueting hall in the old days when sumptuous

repasts and numerous guests were not uncommon things in the château. A

huge beam divided the lofty ceiling into two compartments, which were

crossed at regular intervals by smaller joists, richly carved, and

retaining some traces of gilding. The spaces between had been

originally of a deep blue tint, almost lost now under the thick coating

of dust and spiders’ webs that no housemaid’s mop ever invaded. Above

the grand old chimney-piece was a noble stag’s head, with huge,

spreading antlers, and on the walls hung rows of ancient family

portraits, so faded and mouldy now that most of the faces had a ghastly

hue, and at night, by the dim, flickering lamp-light, they looked like

a company of spectres. Nothing in the world is sadder than a collection

of old portraits hanging thus, neglected and forgotten, in deserted

halls—representations, half obliterated themselves, of forms and faces

long since returned to dust. Yet these painted phantoms were most

appropriate inhabitants of this desolate abode; real living people

would have seemed out of place in the death-stricken house.

In the middle of the room stood an immense dining-table of dark,

polished wood, much worm-eaten, and gradually falling into decay. Two

tall buffets, elaborately carved and ornamented, stood on opposite

sides of the room, with only a few odd pieces of Palissy ware,

representing lizards, crabs, and shell-fish, reposing on shiny green

leaves, and two or three delicate wine-glasses of quaint patterns

remaining upon the shelves where gold and silver plate used to glitter

in rich profusion, as was the mode in France. The handsome old chairs,

with their high, carved backs and faded velvet cushions, that had been

so firm and luxurious once, were tottering and insecure; but it

mattered little, since no one ever came to sit in them now round the

festive board, and they stood against the wall in prim order, under the

rows of family portraits.

A smaller room opened out of this one, hung round with faded,

moth-eaten tapestry. In one corner stood a large bed, with four tall,

twisted columns and long, ample curtains of rich brocade, which had

been delicate green and white, but now were of a dingy, yellowish hue,

and cut completely through from top to bottom in every fold. An ebony

table, with some pretty gilded ornaments still clinging to it, a mirror

dim with age, and two large arm-chairs, covered with worn and faded

embroidery, that had been wrought by the fair fingers of some noble

dame long since dead and forgotten, completed the furniture of this

dismal chamber.

In these two rooms were the latticed windows seen in the front of the

château, and over them still hung long sweeping curtains, so tattered

and moth-eaten that they were almost falling to pieces. Profound

silence reigned here, unbroken save by occasional scurrying and

squeaking of mice behind the wainscot, the gnawing of rats in the wall,

or the ticking of the death-watch.

From the tapestried chamber a door opened into a long suite of deserted

rooms, which were lofty and of noble proportions, but devoid of

furniture, and given up to dust, spiders, and rats. The apartments on

the floor above them were the home of great numbers of bats, owls, and

jackdaws, who found ready ingress through the large holes in the roof.

Every evening they flew forth in flocks, with much flapping of wings,

and weird, melancholy cries and shrieks, in search of the food not to

be found in the immediate vicinity of this forlorn mansion.

The apartments on the ground floor contained nothing but a few bundles

of straw, a heap of corn-cobs, and some antiquated gardening

implements. In one of them, however, was a rude bed, covered with a

single, coarse blanket; presumably that of the only domestic remaining

in the whole establishment.

It was from the kitchen chimney that the little spiral of smoke escaped

which was seen from without. A few sticks were burning in the wide,

old-fashioned fireplace, but the flames looked pale under the bright

light that streamed down upon them through the broad, straight flue.

The pot that hung from the clumsy iron crane was boiling sleepily, and

if the curious visitor could have peeped into it he would have seen

that the little cabbage bed in the garden had contributed of its

produce to the _pot-au-feu_. An old black cat was sitting as close to

the fire as he could without singeing his whiskers, and gravely

watching the simmering pot with longing eyes. His ears had been closely

cropped, and he had not a vestige of a tail, so that he looked like one

of those grotesque Japanese chimeras that everybody is familiar with.

Upon the table, near at hand, a white plate, a tin drinking cup, and a

china dish, bearing the family arms stamped in blue, were neatly

arranged, evidently in readiness for somebody’s supper. For a long time

the cat remained perfectly motionless, intently watching the pot which

had almost ceased to boil as the fire got low, and the silence

continued unbroken; but at last a slow, heavy step was heard

approaching from without, and presently the door opened to admit an old

man, who looked half peasant, half gentleman’s servant. The black cat

immediately quitted his place by the fire and went to meet him; rubbing

himself against the newcomer’s legs, arching his back and purring

loudly; testifying his joy in every way possible to him.

“Well, well, Beelzebub,” said the old man, bending down and stroking

him affectionately, “are you really so glad to see me? Yes, I know you

are, and it pleases me, old fellow, so it does. We are so lonely here,

my poor young master and I, that even the welcome of a dumb beast is

not to be despised. They do say that you have no soul, Beelzebub, but

you certainly do love us, and understand most times what we say to you

too.” These greetings exchanged, Beelzebub led the way back to the

fire, and then with beseeching eyes, looking alternately from the face

of his friend to the _pot-au-feu_, seemed mutely begging for his share

of its contents. Poor Beelzebub was growing so old that he could no

longer catch as many rats and mice as his appetite craved, and he was

evidently very hungry.

Pierre, that was the old servant’s name, threw more wood on the

smouldering fire, and then sat down on a settle in the chimney corner,

inviting his companion—who had to wait still for his supper as

patiently as he might—to take a seat beside him. The firelight shone

full upon the old man’s honest, weather-beaten face, the few scattered

locks of snow-white hair escaping from under his dark blue woollen cap,

his thick, black eyebrows and deep wrinkles. He had the usual

characteristics of the Basque race; a long face, hooked nose, and dark,

gipsy-like complexion. He wore a sort of livery, which was so old and

threadbare that it would be impossible to make out its original colour,

and his stiff, soldier-like carriage and movements proclaimed that he

had at some time in his life served in a military capacity. “The young

master is late to-night,” he muttered to himself, as the daylight

faded. “What possible pleasure can he find in these long, solitary

rambles over the dunes? It is true though that it is so dreary here, in

this lonely, dismal house, that any other place is preferable.”

At this moment a joyous barking was heard without, the old pony in the

stable stamped and whinnied, and the cat jumped down from his place

beside Pierre and trotted off towards the door with great alacrity. In

an instant the latch was lifted, and the old servant rose, taking off

his woollen cap respectfully, as his master came into the kitchen. He

was preceded by the poor old dog, trying to jump up on him, but falling

back every time without being able to reach his face, and Beelzebub

seemed to welcome them both—showing no evidence of the antipathy

usually existing between the feline and canine races; on the contrary,

receiving Miraut with marks of affection which were fully reciprocated.

The Baron de Sigognac, for it was indeed the lord of the manor who now

entered, was a young man of five or six and twenty; though at first

sight he seemed much older, because of the deep gravity, even sadness,

of his demeanour; the feeling of utter powerlessness which poverty

brings having effectually chased away all the natural piety and

light-heartedness of youth. Dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes,

his cheeks were hollow, his mustache drooped in a sorrowful curve over

his sad mouth. His long black hair was negligently pushed back from his

pale face, and showed a want of care remarkable in a young man who was

strikingly handsome, despite his doleful desponding expression. The

constant pressure of a crushing grief had drawn sorrowful lines in a

countenance that a little animation would have rendered charming. All

the elasticity and hopefulness natural to his age seemed to have been

lost in his useless struggles against an unhappy fate. Though his frame

was lithe, vigorous, and admirably proportioned, all his movements were

slow and apathetic, like those of an old man. His gestures were

entirely devoid of animation, his whole expression inert, and it was

evidently a matter of perfect indifference to him where he might chance

to find himself at home, in his dismal château, or abroad in the

desolate Landes.

He had on an old gray felt hat, much too large for him, with a dingy,

shabby feather, that drooped as if it felt heartily ashamed of itself,

and the miserable condition to which it was reduced. A broad collar of

guipure lace, ragged in many places, was turned down over a

just-au-corps, which had been cut for a taller and much stouter man

than the slender, young baron. The sleeves of his doublet were so long

that they fell over his hands, which were small and shapely, and there

were large iron spurs on the clumsy, old-fashioned riding-boots he

wore. These shabby, antiquated clothes had belonged to his father; they

were made according to the fashion that prevailed during the preceding

reign; and the poor young nobleman, whose appearance in them was both

ridiculous and touching, might have been taken for one of his own

ancestors. Although he tenderly cherished his father’s memory, and

tears often came into his eyes as he put on these garments that had

seemed actually a part of him, yet it was not from choice that young de

Sigognac availed himself of the paternal wardrobe. Unfortunately he had

no other clothes, save those of his boyhood, long ago outgrown, and so

he was thankful to have these, distasteful as they could not fail to be

to him. The peasants, who had been accustomed to hold them in respect

when worn by their old seignior, did not think it strange or absurd to

see them on his youthful successor; just as they did not seem to notice

or be aware of the half-ruined condition of the château. It had come so

gradually that they were thoroughly used to it, and took it as a matter

of course. The Baron de Sigognac, though poverty-stricken and forlorn,

was still in their eyes the noble lord of the manor; the decadence of

the family did not strike them at all as it would a stranger; and yet

it was a grotesquely melancholy sight to see the poor young nobleman

pass by, in his shabby old clothes, on his miserable old pony, and

followed by his forlorn old dog.

The baron sat down in silence at the table prepared for him, having

recognised Pierre’s respectful salute by a kindly gesture. The old

servant immediately busied himself in serving his master’s frugal

supper; first pouring the hot soup—which was of that kind, popular

among the poor peasantry of Gascony, called “garbure”—upon some bread

cut into small pieces in an earthen basin, which he set before the

baron; then, fetching from the cupboard a dish of bacon, cold, and

cooked in Gascon fashion, he placed that also upon the table, and had

nothing else to add to this meagre repast. The baron ate it slowly,

with an absent air, while Miraut and Beelzebub, one on each side of

him, received their full share from his kind hand.

The supper finished, he fell into a deep reverie. Miraut had laid his

head caressingly upon his master’s knee, and looked up into his face

with loving, intelligent eyes, somewhat dimmed by age, but still

seeming to understand his thoughts and sympathize with his sadness.

Beelzebub purred loudly meantime, and occasionally mewed plaintively to

attract his attention, while Pierre stood in a respectful attitude, cap

in hand, at a little distance, motionless as a statue, waiting

patiently until his master’s wandering thoughts should return. By this

time the darkness had fallen, and the flickering radiance from the few

sticks blazing in the great fireplace made strange effects of light and

shade in the spacious old kitchen. It was a sad picture; this last

scion of a noble race, formerly rich and powerful, left wandering like

an uneasy ghost in the castle of his ancestors, with but one faithful

old servant remaining to him of the numerous retinue of the olden

times; one poor old dog, half starved, and gray with age, where used to

be a pack of thirty hounds; one miserable, superannuated pony in the

stable where twenty horses had been wont to stand; and one old cat to

beg for caresses from his hand.

At last the baron roused himself, and signed to Pierre that he wished

to retire to his own chamber; whereupon the servant lighted a pine knot

at the fire, and preceded his master up the stairs, Miraut and

Beelzebub accompanying them. The smoky, flaring light of the torch made

the faded figures on the wall seem to waver and move as they passed

through the hall and up the broad staircase, and gave a strange, weird

expression to the family portraits that looked down upon this little

procession as it moved by below them. When they reached the tapestried

chamber Pierre lighted a little copper lamp, and then bade the baron

good-night, followed by Miraut as he retraced his steps to the kitchen;

but Beelzebub, being a privileged character, remained, and curled

himself up comfortably in one of the old arm-chairs, while his master

threw himself listlessly into the other, in utter despair at the

thought of his miserable loneliness, and aimless, hopeless life. If the

chamber seemed dreary and forlorn by day, it was far more so by night.

The faded figures in the tapestry had an uncanny look; especially one,

a hunter, who might have passed for an assassin, just taking aim at his

victim. The smile on his startlingly red lips, in reality only a

self-satisfied smirk, was fairly devilish in that light, and his

ghastly face horribly life-like. The lamp burned dimly in the damp

heavy air, the wind sighed and moaned along the corridors, and strange,

frightful sounds came from the deserted chambers close at hand. The

storm that had long been threatening had come at last, and large, heavy

rain-drops were driven violently against the window-panes by gusts of

wind that made them rattle loudly in their leaden frames. Sometimes it

seemed as if the whole sash would give way before the fiercer blasts,

as though a giant had set his knee against it, and was striving to

force an entrance. Now and again, when the wind lulled for a moment

while it gathered strength for a fresh assault, the horrid shriek of an

owl would be heard above the dashing of the rain that was falling in

torrents.

The master of this dismal mansion paid little attention to this

lugubrious symphony, but Beelzebub was very uneasy, starting up at

every sound, and peering into the shadowy corners of the room, as if he

could see there something invisible to human eyes. The baron took up a

little book that was lying upon the table, glanced at the familiar arms

stamped upon its tarnished cover, and opening it, began to read in a

listless, absent way. His eyes followed the smooth rhythm of Ronsard’s

ardent love-songs and stately sonnets, but his thoughts were wandering

far afield, and he soon threw the book from him with an impatient

gesture, and began slowly unfastening his garments, with the air of a

man who is not sleepy, but only goes to bed because he does not know

what else to do with himself, and has perhaps a faint hope of

forgetting his troubles in the embrace of Morpheus, most blessed of all

the gods. The sand runs so slowly in the hour-glass on a dark, stormy

night, in a half-ruined castle, ten leagues away from any living soul.

The poor young baron, only surviving representative of an ancient and

noble house, had much indeed to make him melancholy and despondent. His

ancestors had worked their own ruin, and that of their descendants, in

various ways. Some by gambling, some in the army, some by undue

prodigality in living—in order that they might shine at court—so that

each generation had left the estate more and more diminished. The

fiefs, the farms, the land surrounding the château itself, all had been

sold, one after the other, and the last baron, after desperate efforts

to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family—efforts which came too

late, for it is useless to try to stop the leaks after the vessel has

gone down—had left his son nothing but this half-ruined château and the

few acres of barren land immediately around it. The unfortunate child

had been born and brought up in poverty. His mother had died young,

broken-hearted at the wretched prospects of her only son; so that he

could not even remember her sweet caresses and tender, loving care. His

father had been very stern with him; punishing him severely for the

most trivial offences; yet he would have been glad now even of his

sharp rebukes, so terribly lonely had he been for the last four years;

ever since his father was laid in the family vault. His youthful pride

would not allow him to associate with the noblesse of the province

without the accessories suitable to his rank, though he would have been

received with open arms by them, so his solitude was never invaded.

Those who knew his circumstances respected as well as pitied the poor,

proud young baron, while many of the former friends of the family

believed that it was extinct; which indeed it inevitably would be, with

this its only remaining scion, if things went on much longer as they

had been going for many years past.

The baron had not yet removed a single garment when his attention was

attracted by the strange uneasiness of Beelzebub, who finally jumped

down from his arm-chair, went straight to one of the windows, and

raising himself on his hind legs put his fore-paws on the casing and

stared out into the thick darkness, where it was impossible to

distinguish anything but the driving rain. A loud howl from Miraut at

the same moment proclaimed that he too was aroused, and that something

very unusual must be going on in the vicinity of the château,

ordinarily as quiet as the grave. Miraut kept up persistently a furious

barking, and the baron gave up all idea of going to bed. He hastily

readjusted his dress, so that he might be in readiness for whatever

should happen, and feeling a little excited at this novel commotion.

“What can be the matter with poor old Miraut? He usually sleeps from

sunset to sunrise without making a sound, save his snores. Can it be

that a wolf is prowling about the place?” said the young man to

himself, as he buckled the belt of his sword round his slender waist. A

formidable weapon it was, that sword, with long blade, and heavy iron

scabbard.

At that moment three loud knocks upon the great outer door resounded

through the house. Who could possibly have strayed here at this hour,

so far from the travelled roads, and in this tempest that was making

night horrible without? No such thing had occurred within the baron’s

recollection. What could it portend?

CHAPTER II.

THE CHARIOT OF THESPIS

The Baron de Sigognac went down the broad staircase without a moment’s

delay to answer this mysterious summons, protecting with his hand the

feeble flame of the small lamp he carried from the many draughts that

threatened to blow it out. The light, shining through his slender

fingers, gave them a rosy tinge, so that he merited the epithet applied

by Homer, the immortal bard, to the laughing, beautiful Aurora, even

though he advanced through the thick darkness with his usual melancholy

mien, and followed by a black cat, instead of preceding the glorious

god of day.

Setting down his lamp in a sheltered corner, he proceeded to take down

the massive bar that secured the door, cautiously opened the

practicable leaf, and found himself face to face with a man, upon whom

the light of the lamp shone sufficiently to show rather a grotesque

figure, standing uncovered in the pelting rain. His head was bald and

shining, with a few locks of gray hair clustering about the temples. A

jolly red nose, bulbous in form, a small pair of twinkling, roguish

eyes, looking out from under bushy, jet-black eyebrows, flabby cheeks,

over which was spread a network of purplish fibres, full, sensual lips,

and a scanty, straggling beard, that scarcely covered the short, round

chin, made up a physiognomy worthy to serve as the model for a Silenus;

for it was plainly that of a wine-bibber and _bon vivant_. Yet a

certain expression of good humour and kindness, almost of gentleness,

redeemed what would otherwise have been a repulsive face. The comical

little wrinkles gathering about the eyes, and the merry upward turn of

the comers of the mouth, showed a disposition to smile as he met the

inquiring gaze of the young baron, but he only bowed repeatedly and

profoundly, with exaggerated politeness and respect.

This extraordinary pantomime finished, with a grand flourish, the

burlesque personage, still standing uncovered in the pouring rain,

anticipated the question upon de Sigognac’s lips, and began at once the

following address, in an emphatic and declamatory tone:

“I pray you deign to excuse, noble seignior, my having come thus to

knock at the gates of your castle in person at this untimely hour,

without sending a page or a courier in advance, to announce my approach

in a suitable manner. Necessity knows no law, and forces the most

polished personages to be guilty of gross breaches of etiquette at

times.”

“What is it you want?” interrupted the baron, in rather a peremptory

tone, annoyed by the absurd address of this strange old creature, whose

sanity he began to doubt.

“Hospitality, most noble seignior; hospitality for myself and my

comrades—princes and princesses, heroes and beauties, men of letters

and great captains, pretty waiting-maids and honest valets, who travel

through the provinces from town to town in the chariot of Thespis,

drawn by oxen, as in the ancient times. This chariot is now hopelessly

stuck in the mud only a stone’s throw from your castle, my noble lord.”

“If I understand aright what you say,” answered the baron, “you are a

strolling band of players, and have lost your way. Though my house is

sadly dilapidated, and I cannot offer you more than mere shelter, you

are heartily welcome to that, and will be better off within here than

exposed to the fury of this wild storm.”

The pedant—for such seemed to be his character in the troupe—bowed his

acknowledgments.

During this colloquy, Pierre, awakened by Miraut’s loud barking, had

risen and joined his master at the door. As soon as he was informed of

what had occurred, he lighted a lantern, and with the baron set forth,

under the guidance of the droll old actor, to find and rescue the

chariot in distress. When they reached it Leander and Matamore were

tugging vainly at the wheels, while his majesty, the king, pricked up

the weary oxen with the point of his dagger. The actresses, wrapped in

their cloaks and seated in the rude chariot, were in despair, and much

frightened as well—wet and weary too, poor things. This most welcome

re-enforcement inspired all with fresh courage, and, guided by Pierre’s

suggestions, they soon succeeded in getting the unwieldy vehicle out of

the quagmire and into the road leading to the château, which was

speedily reached, and the huge equipage safely piloted through the

grand portico into the interior court. The oxen were at once taken from

before it and led into the stable, while the actresses followed de

Sigognac up to the ancient banqueting hall, which was the most

habitable room in the château. Pierre brought some wood, and soon had a

bright fire blazing cheerily in the great fireplace. It was needed,

although but the beginning of September and the weather still warm, to

dry the dripping garments of the company; and besides, the air was so

damp and chilly in this long disused apartment that the genial warmth

and glow of the fire were welcome to all.

Although the strolling comedians were accustomed to find themselves in

all sorts of odd, strange lodgings in the course of their wanderings,

they now looked with astonishment at their extraordinary surroundings;

being careful, however, like well-bred people, not to manifest too

plainly the surprise they could not help feeling.

“I regret very much that I cannot offer you a supper,” said their young

host, when all had assembled round the fire, “but my larder is so bare

that a mouse could not find enough for a meal in it. I live quite alone

in this house with my faithful old Pierre; never visited by anybody;

and you can plainly perceive, without my telling you, that plenty does

not abound here.”

“Never mind that, noble seignior,” answered Blazius, the pedant, “for

though on the stage we may sit down to mock repasts—pasteboard fowls

and wooden bottles—we are careful to provide ourselves with more

substantial and savoury viands in real life. As quartermaster of the

troupe I always have in reserve a Bayonne ham, a game pasty, or

something, of that sort, with at least a dozen bottles of good old

Bordeaux.”

“Bravo, sir pedant,” cried Leander, “do you go forthwith and fetch in

the provisions; and if his lordship will permit, and deign to join us,

we will have our little feast here. The ladies will set the table for

us meanwhile I am sure.”

The baron graciously nodded his assent, being in truth so amazed at the

whole proceeding that he could not easily have found words just then;

and he followed with wondering and admiring eyes the graceful movements

of Serafina and Isabelle, who, quitting their seats by the fire,

proceeded to arrange upon the worn but snow-white cloth that Pierre had

spread on the ancient dining-table, the plates and other necessary

articles that the old servant brought forth from the recesses of the

carved buffets. The pedant quickly came back, carrying a large basket

in each hand, and with a triumphant air placed a huge pasty of most

tempting appearance in the middle of the table. To this he added a

large smoked tongue, some slices of rosy Bayonne ham, and six bottles

of wine.

Beelzebub watched these interesting preparations from a distance with

eager eyes, but was too much afraid of all these strangers to approach

and claim a share of the good things on the table. The poor beast was

so accustomed to solitude and quiet, never seeing any one beyond his

beloved master and Pierre, that he was horribly frightened at the

sudden irruption of these noisy newcomers.

Finding the feeble light of the baron’s small lamp rather dim, Matamore

bad gone out to the chariot and brought back two showy candelabra,

which ordinarily did duty on the stage. They each held several candles,

which, in addition to the warm radiance from the blazing fire, made

quite a brilliant illumination in this room, so lately dark, cheerless,

and deserted. It had become warm and comfortable by this time; its

family portraits and tarnished splendour looked their best in the

bright, soft light, which had chased away the dark shadows and given a

new beauty to everything it fell upon; the whole place was

metamorphosed; a festive air prevailed, and the ancient banqueting hall

once more resounded with cheery voices and gay laughter.

The poor young baron, to whom all this had been intensely disagreeable

at first, became aware of a strange feeling of comfort and pleasure

stealing over him, to which, after a short struggle, he finally yielded

himself entirely. Isabelle, Serafina, even the pretty _soubrette_,

seemed to him, unaccustomed as he was to feminine beauty and grace,

like goddesses come down from Mount Olympus, rather than mere ordinary

mortals. They were all very pretty, and well fitted to turn heads far

more experienced than his. The whole thing was like a delightful dream

to him; he almost doubted the evidence of his own senses, and every few

minutes found himself dreading the awakening, and the vanishing of the

entrancing vision.

When all was ready de Sigognac led Isabelle and Serafina to the table,

placing one on each side of him, with the pretty _soubrette_ opposite.

Mme. Léonarde, the duenna of the troupe, sat beside the pedant,

Leander, Matamore, his majesty the tyrant, and Scapin finding places

for themselves. The youthful host was now able to study the faces of

his guests at his ease, as they sat round the table in the full light

of the candles burning upon it in the two theatrical candelabra. He

turned his attention to the ladies first, and it perhaps will not be

out of place to give a little sketch of them here, while the pedant

attacks the gigantic game pasty.

Serafina, the “leading lady” of the troupe, was a handsome young woman

of four or five and twenty, who had quite a grand air, and was as

dignified and graceful withal as any veritable noble dame who shone at

the court of his most gracious majesty, Louis XIII. She had an oval

face, slightly aquiline nose, large gray eyes, bright red lips—the

under one full and pouting, like a ripe cherry—-a very fair complexion,

with a beautiful colour in her cheeks when she was animated or excited,

and rich masses of dark brown hair most becomingly arranged. She wore a

round felt hat, with the wide rim turned up at one side, and trimmed

with long, floating plumes. A broad lace collar was turned down over

her dark green velvet dress, which was elaborately braided, and fitted

closely to a fine, well-developed figure. A long, black silk scarf was

worn negligently around her shapely shoulders and although both velvet

and silk were old and dingy, and the feathers in her hat wet and limp,

they were still very effective, and she looked like a young queen who

had strayed away from her realm; the freshness and radiant beauty of

her face more than made up for the shabbiness of her dress, and de

Sigognac was fairly dazzled by her many charms.

Isabelle was much more youthful than Serafina, as was requisite for her

role of ingenuous young girl, and far more simply dressed. She had a

sweet, almost childlike face, beautiful, silky, chestnut hair, with

golden lights in it, dark, sweeping lashes veiling her large, soft

eyes, a little rosebud of a mouth, and an air of modesty and purity

that was evidently natural to her—not assumed. A gray silk gown, simply

made, showed to advantage her slender, graceful form, which seemed far

too fragile to endure the hardships inseparable from the wandering life

she was leading. A high Elizabethan ruff made a most becoming frame for

her sweet, delicately tinted, young face, and her only ornament was a

string of pearl beads, clasped round her slender, white neck. Though

her beauty was less striking at first sight than Serafina’s, it was of

a higher order: not dazzling like hers, but surpassingly lovely in its

exquisite purity and freshness, and promising to eclipse the other’s

more showy charms, when the half-opened bud should have expanded into

the full-blown flower.

The _soubrette_ was like a beautiful Gipsy, with a clear, dark

complexion, rich, mantling colour in her velvety cheeks, intensely

black hair—long, thick, and wavy—great, flashing, brown eyes, and

rather a large mouth, with ripe, red lips, and dazzling white

teeth—one’s very beau-ideal of a bewitching, intriguing waiting-maid,

and one that might be a dangerous rival to any but a surpassingly

lovely and fascinating mistress. She was one of the beauties that women

are not apt to admire, but men rave about and run after the world over.

She wore a fantastic costume of blue and yellow, which was odd,

piquant, and becoming, and seemed fully conscious of her own charms.

Mme. Léonarde, the “noble mother” of the troupe dressed all in black,

like a Spanish duenna, was portly of figure, with a heavy, very pale

face, double chin, and intensely black eyes, that had a crafty,

slightly malicious expression. She had been upon the stage from her

early childhood, passing through all the different phases, and was an

actress of decided talent, often still winning enthusiastic applause at

the expense of younger and more attractive women, who were inclined to

think her something of an old sorceress.

So much for the feminine element. The principal roles were all

represented; and if occasionally a re-enforcement was required, they

could almost always pick up some provincial actress, or even an

amateur, at a pinch. The actors were five in number: The pedant,

already described, who rejoiced in the name of Blazitis; Leander;

Hérode, the tragic tyrant; Matamore, the bully; and Scapin, the

intriguing valet.

Leander, the romantic, irresistible, young lover—darling of the

ladies—was a tall, fine-looking fellow of about thirty, though

apparently much more youthful, thanks to the assiduous care he bestowed

on his handsome person. His slightly curly, black hair was worn long,

so that he might often have occasion to push it back from his forehead,

with a hand as white and delicate as a woman’s, upon one of whose taper

fingers sparkled an enormous diamond—a great deal too big to be real.

He was rather fancifully dressed, and always falling into such

graceful, languishing attitudes as he thought would be admired by the

fair sex, whose devoted slave he was. This Adonis never for one moment

laid aside his role. He punctuated his sentences with sighs, even when

speaking of the most indifferent matters, and assumed all sorts of

preposterous airs and graces, to the secret amusement of his

companions. But he had great success among the ladies, who all

flattered him and declared he was charming, until they had turned his

head completely; and it was his firm belief that he was irresistibly

fascinating.

The tyrant was the most good-natured, easy-going creature imaginable;

but, strangely enough, gifted by nature with all the external signs of

ferocity. With his tall, burly frame, very dark skin, immensely thick,

shaggy eyebrows, black as jet, crinkly, bushy hair of the same hue, and

long beard, that grew far up on his cheeks, he was a very formidable,

fierce-looking fellow; and when he spoke, his loud, deep voice made

everything ring again. He affected great dignity, and filled his role

to perfection.

Matamore was as different as possible, painfully thin—scarcely more

than mere skin and bones—a living skeleton with a large hooked nose,

set in a long, narrow face, a huge mustache turned up at the ends, and

flashing, black eyes. His excessively tall, lank figure was so

emaciated that it was like a caricature of a man. The swaggering air

suitable to his part had become habitual with him, and he walked always

with immense strides, head well thrown back, and hand on the pommel of

the huge sword he was never seen without.

As to Scapin, he looked more like a fox than anything else, and had a

most villainous countenance; yet he was a good enough fellow in

reality.

The painter has a great advantage over the writer, in that he can so

present the group on his canvas that one glance suffices to take in the

whole picture, with the lights and shadows, attitudes, costumes, and

details of every kind, which are sadly wanting in our description—too

long, though so imperfect—of the party gathered thus unexpectedly round

our young baron’s table. The beginning of the repast was very silent,

until the most urgent demands of hunger had been satisfied. Poor de

Sigognac, who had never perhaps at any one time had as much to eat as

he wanted since he was weaned, attacked the tempting viands with an

appetite and ardour quite new to him; and that too despite his great

desire to appear interesting and romantic in the eyes of the beautiful

young women between whom he was seated. The pedant, very much amused at

the boyish eagerness and enjoyment of his youthful host, quietly heaped

choice bits upon his plate, and watched their rapid disappearance with

beaming satisfaction. Beelzebub had at last plucked up courage and

crept softly under the table to his master, making his presence known

by a quick tapping with his fore-paws upon the baron’s knees; his

claims were at once recognised, and he feasted to his heart’s content

on the savoury morsels quietly thrown down to him. Poor old Miraut, who

had followed Pierre into the room, was not neglected either, and had

his full share of the good things that found their way to his master’s

plate.

By this time there was a good deal of laughing and talking round the

festive board. The baron, though very timid, and much embarrassed, had

ventured to enter into conversation with his fair neighbours. The

pedant and the tyrant were loudly discussing the respective merits of

tragedy and comedy. Leander, like Narcissus of old, was complacently

admiring his own charms as reflected in a little pocket mirror he

always had about him. Strange to say he was not a suitor of either

Serafina’s or Isabelle’s; fortunately for them he aimed higher, and was

always hoping that some grand lady, who saw him on the stage, would

fall violently in love with him, and shower all sorts of favours upon

him. He was in the habit of boasting that he had had many delightful

adventures of the kind, which Scapin persistently denied, declaring

that to his certain knowledge they had never taken place, save in the

aspiring lover’s own vivid imagination. The exasperating valet,

malicious as a monkey, took the greatest delight in tormenting poor

Leander, and never lost an opportunity; so now, seeing him absorbed in

self-admiration, he immediately attacked him, and soon had made him

furious. The quarrel grew loud and violent, and Leander was heard

declaring that he could produce a large chest crammed full of love

letters, written to him by various high and titled ladies; whereupon

everybody laughed uproariously, while Serafina said to de Sigognac that

she for one did not admire their taste, and Isabelle silently looked

her disgust. The baron meantime was more and more charmed with this

sweet, dainty young girl, and though he was too shy to address any

high-flown compliments to her, according to the fashion of the day, his

eyes spoke eloquently for him. She was not at all displeased at his

ardent glances, and smiled radiantly and encouragingly upon him,

thereby unconsciously making poor Matamore, who was secretly enamoured

of her, desperately unhappy, though he well knew that his passion was

an utterly hopeless one. A more skilful and audacious lover would have

pushed his advantage, but our poor young hero had not learned courtly

manners nor assurance in his isolated château, and, though he lacked

neither wit nor learning, it must be confessed that at this moment he

did appear lamentably stupid.

All the bottles having been scrupulously emptied, the pedant turned the

last one of the half dozen upside down, so that every drop might run

out; which significant action was noted and understood by Matamore, who

lost no time in bringing in a fresh supply from the chariot. The baron

began to feel the wine a little in his head, being entirely

unaccustomed to it, yet he could not resist drinking once again to the

health of the ladies. The pedant and the tyrant drank like old topers,

who can absorb any amount of liquor—be it wine, or something

stronger—without becoming actually intoxicated. Matamore was very

abstemious, both in eating and drinking, and could have lived like the

impoverished Spanish hidalgo, who dines on three olives and sups on an

air upon his mandoline. There was a reason for his extreme frugality;

he feared that if he ate and drank like other people he might lose his

phenomenal thinness, which was of inestimable value to him in a

professional point of view. If he should be so unfortunate as to gain

flesh, his attractions would diminish in an inverse ratio, so he

starved himself almost to death, and was constantly seen anxiously

examining the buckle of his belt, to make sure that he had not

increased in girth since his last meal. Voluntary Tantalus, he scarcely

allowed himself enough to keep life in his attenuated frame, and if he

had but fasted as carefully from motives of piety he would have been a

full-fledged saint.

The portly duenna disposed of solids and fluids perseveringly, and in

formidable quantities, seeming to have an unlimited capacity; but

Isabelle and Serafina had finished their supper long ago, and were

yawning wearily behind their pretty, outspread hands, having no fans

within reach, to conceal these pronounced symptoms of sleepiness.

The baron, becoming aware of this state of things, said to them,

“Mesdemoiselles, I perceive that you are very weary, and I wish with

all my heart that I could offer you each a luxurious bed-chamber; but

my house, like my family, has fallen into decay, and I can only give to

you and Madame my own room. Fortunately the bed is very large, and you

must make yourselves as comfortable as you can—for a single night you

will not mind. As to the gentlemen, I must ask them to remain here with

me, and try to sleep in the arm-chairs before the fire. I pray you,

ladies, do not allow yourselves to be startled by the waving of the

tapestry-which is only due to the strong draughts about the room on a

stormy night like this—the moaning of the wind in the chimney, or the

wild scurrying and squeaking of the mice behind the wainscot. I can

guarantee that no ghosts will disturb you here, though this place does

look dreary and dismal enough to be haunted.”

“I am not a bit of a coward,” answered Serafina laughingly, “and will

do my best to reassure this timid little Isabelle. As to our

duenna,—she is something of a sorceress herself, and if the devil in

person should make his appearance he would meet his match in her.”

The baron then took a light in his hand and showed the three ladies the

way into the bed-chamber, which certainly did strike them rather

unpleasantly at first sight, and looked very eerie in the dim,

flickering light of the one small lamp.

“What a capital scene it would make for the fifth act of a tragedy,”

said Serafina, as she looked curiously about her, while poor little

Isabelle shivered with cold and terror. They all crept into bed without

undressing, Isabelle begging to lie between Serafina and Mme. Léonarde,

for she felt nervous and frightened. The other two fell asleep at once,

but the timid young girl lay long awake, gazing with wide-open,

straining eyes at the door that led into the shut-up apartments beyond,

as if she dreaded its opening to admit some unknown horror. But it

remained fast shut, and though all sorts of mysterious noises made her

poor little heart flutter painfully, her eyelids closed at last, and

she forgot her weariness and her fears in profound slumber.

In the other room the pedant slept soundly, with his head on the table,

and the tyrant opposite to him snored like a giant. Matamore had rolled

himself up in a cloak and made himself as comfortable as possible under

the circumstances in a large arm-chair, with his long, thin legs

extended at full length, and his feet on the fender. Leander slept

sitting bolt upright, so as not to disarrange his carefully brushed

hair, and de Sigognac, who had taken possession of a vacant arm-chair,

was too much agitated and excited by the events of the evening to be

able to close his eyes. The coming of two beautiful, young women thus

suddenly into his life—which had been hitherto so isolated, sad and

dreary, entirely devoid of all the usual pursuits and pleasures of

youth—could not fail to rouse him from his habitual apathy, and set his

pulses beating after a new fashion. Incredible as it may seem yet it

was quite true that our young hero had never had a single love affair.

He was too proud, as we have already said, to take his rightful place

among his equals, without any of the appurtenances suitable to his

rank, and also too proud to associate familiarly with the surrounding

peasantry, who accorded him as much respect in his poverty as they had

ever shown to his ancestors in their prosperity. He had no near

relatives to come to his assistance, and so lived on, neglected and

forgotten, in his crumbling château, with nothing to look forward to or

hope for. In the course of his solitary wanderings he had several times

chanced to encounter the young and beautiful Yolande de Foix, following

the hounds on her snow-white palfrey, in company with her father and a

number of the young noblemen of the neighbourhood. This dazzling vision

of beauty often haunted his dreams, but what possible relations could

there ever be hoped for between the rich, courted heiress, whose

suitors were legion, and his own poverty-stricken self? Far from

seeking to attract her attention, he always got out of her sight as

quickly as possible, lest his ill-fitting, shabby garments and

miserable old pony should excite a laugh at his expense; for he was

very sensitive, this poor young nobleman, and could not have borne the

least approach to ridicule from the fair object of his secret and

passionate admiration. He had tried his utmost to stifle the ardent

emotions that filled his heart whenever his thoughts strayed to the

beautiful Yolande, realizing how far above his reach she was, and he

believed that he had succeeded; though there were times even yet when

it all rushed back upon him with overwhelming force, like a huge tidal

wave that sweeps everything before it.

The night passed quietly at the château, without other incident than

the fright of poor Isabelle, when Beelzebub, who had climbed up on the

bed, as was his frequent custom, established himself comfortably upon

her bosom; finding it a deliciously soft, warm resting-place, and

obstinately resisting her frantic efforts to drive him away.

As to de Sigognac, he did not once close his eyes. A vague project was

gradually shaping itself in his mind, keeping him wakeful and

perplexed. The advent of these strolling comedians appeared to him like

a stroke of fate, an ambassador of fortune, to invite him to go out

into the great world, away from this old feudal ruin, where his youth

was passing in misery and inaction—to quit this dreary shade, and

emerge into the light and life of the outer world.

At last the gray light of the dawn came creeping in through the lattice

windows, speedily followed by the first bright rays from the rising

sun. The storm was over, and the glorious god of day rose triumphant in

a perfectly clear sky. It was a strange group that he peeped in upon,

where the old family portraits seemed looking down with haughty

contempt upon the slumbering invaders of their dignified solitude. The

_soubrette_ was the first to awake, starting up as a warm sunbeam shone

caressingly full upon her face. She sprang to her feet, shook out her

skirts, as a bird does its plumage, passed the palms of her hands

lightly over her glossy bands of jet-black hair, and then seeing that

the baron was quietly observing her, with eyes that showed no trace of

drowsiness, she smiled radiantly upon him as she made a low and most

graceful curtsey.

“I am very sorry,” said de Sigognac, as he rose to acknowledge her

salute, “that the ruinous condition of this château, which verily seems

better fitted to receive phantoms than real living guests, would not

permit me to offer you more comfortable accommodations. If I had been

able to follow my inclinations, I should have lodged you in a luxurious

chamber, where you could have reposed between fine linen sheets, under

silken curtains, instead of resting uneasily in that worm-eaten old

chair.”

“Do not be sorry about anything, my lord, I pray you,” answered the

_soubrette_ with another brilliant smile; “but for your kindness we

should have been in far worse plight; forced to pass the night in the

poor old chariot, stuck fast in the mud; exposed to the cutting wind

and pelting rain. We should assuredly have found ourselves in wretched

case this morning. Besides, this château which you speak of so

disparagingly is magnificence itself in comparison with the miserable

barns, open to the weather, in which we have sometimes been forced to

spend the night, trying to sleep as best we might on bundles of straw,

and making light of our misery to keep our courage up.”

While the baron and the actress were exchanging civilities the pedant’s

chair, unable to support his weight any longer, suddenly gave way under

him, and he fell to the floor with a tremendous crash, which startled

the whole company. In his fall he had mechanically seized hold of the

table-cloth, and so brought nearly all the things upon it clattering

down with him. He lay sprawling like a huge turtle in the midst of them

until the tyrant, after rubbing his eyes and stretching his burly

limbs, came to the rescue, and held out a helping hand, by aid of which

the old actor managed with some difficulty to scramble to his feet.

“Such an accident as that could never happen to Matamore,” said Hérode,

with his resounding laugh; “he might fall into a spider’s web without

breaking through it.”

“That’s true,” retorted the shadow of a man, in his turn stretching his

long attenuated limbs and yawning tremendously, “but then, you know,

not everybody has the advantage of being a second Polyphemus, a

mountain of flesh and bones, like you, or a big wine-barrel, like our

friend Blazius there.”

All this commotion had aroused Isabelle, Serafina and the duenna, who

presently made their appearance. The two younger women, though a little

pale and weary, yet looked very charming in the bright morning light.

In de Sigognac’s eyes they appeared radiant, in spite of the shabbiness

of their finery, which was far more apparent now than on the preceding

evening. But what signify faded ribbons and dingy gowns when the

wearers are fresh, young and beautiful? Besides, the baron’s eyes were

so accustomed to dinginess that they were not capable of detecting such

slight defects in the toilets of his fair guests, and he gazed with

delight upon these bewitching creatures, enraptured with their grace

and beauty. As to the duenna, she was both old and ugly, and had long

ago accepted the inevitable with commendable resignation.

As the ladies entered by one door, Pierre came in by the other,

bringing more wood for the fire, and then proceeding to make the

disordered room as tidy as he could. All the company now gathered round

the cheerful blaze that was roaring up the chimney and sending out a

warm glow that was an irresistible attraction in the chill of the early

morning. Isabelle knelt down and stretched out the rosy palms of her

pretty little hands as near to the flames as she dared, while Serafina

stood behind and laid her hands caressingly on her shoulders, like an

elder sister taking tender care of a younger one. Matamore stood on one

leg like a huge heron, leaning against the corner of the carved

chimney-piece, and seemed inclined to fall asleep again, while the

pedant was vainly searching for a swallow of wine among the empty

bottles.

The baron meantime had held a hurried private consultation with Pierre

as to the possibility of procuring a few eggs, or a fowl or two, at the

nearest hamlet, so that he might give the travellers something to eat

before their departure, and he bade the old servant be quick about it,

for the chariot was to make an early start, as they had a long day’s

journey before them.

“I cannot let you go away fasting, though you will have rather a scanty

breakfast I fear,” he said to his guests, “but it is better to have a

poor one than none at all; and there is not an inn within six leagues

of this where you could be sure of getting anything to eat. I will not

make further apologies, for the condition of everything in this house

shows you plainly enough that I am not rich; but as my poverty is

mainly owing to the great expenditures made by my honoured ancestors in

many wars for the defence of king and country, I do not need to be

ashamed of it.”

“No indeed, my lord,” answered Hérode in his deep, bass voice, “and

many there be in these degenerate days who hold their heads very high

because of their riches, who would not like to have to confess how they

came in possession of them.”

“What astonishes me,” interrupted Blazius, “is that such an

accomplished young gentleman as your lordship seems to be should be

willing to remain here in this isolated spot, where Fortune cannot

reach you even if she would. You ought to go to Paris, the great

capital of the world, the rendezvous of brave and learned men, the El

Dorado, the promised land, the Paradise of all true Frenchmen. There

you would be sure to make your way, either in attaching yourself to the

household of some great nobleman, a friend of your family, or in

performing some brilliant deed of valour, the opportunity for which

will not be long to find.”

These words, although rather high-flown, were not devoid of sense, and

de Sigognac could not help secretly admitting that there was some truth

in them. He had often, during his long rambles over the desolate

Landes, thought wishfully of undertaking what the pedant had just

proposed; but he had not money enough for the journey even, and he did

not know where to look for more. Though brave and high-spirited, he was

very sensitive, and feared a smile of derision more than a

sword-thrust. He was not familiar with the prevailing fashions in

dress, but he felt that his antiquated costume was ridiculous as well

as shabby, and sure to be laughed at anywhere but among his own simple

peasantry. Like most of those who are disheartened and crushed by

extreme poverty, he only looked at the dark side of things, and made no

allowance for any possible advantages. Perhaps he might have been

delicately as well as generously assisted by some of his father’s old

friends if he would only have let them know of his situation, but his

pride held him back, and he would have died of starvation rather than

ask for aid in any form.

“I used to think sometimes of going to Paris,” he answered slowly,

after some hesitation, “but I have no friends or even acquaintances

there; and the descendants of those who perhaps knew my ancestors when

they were rich and powerful, and in favour at court, could scarcely be

expected to welcome a poverty-stricken Baron de Sigognac, who came

swooping down from his ruined tower to try and snatch a share of any

prey that chanced to lie within reach of his talons. And besides—I do

not know why I should be ashamed to acknowledge it—I have not any of

the appurtenances suitable to my rank, and could not present myself

upon a footing worthy of my name. I doubt if I have even money enough

for the expenses of the journey alone, and that in the humblest

fashion.”

“But it is not necessary,” Blazius hastened to reply, “that you should

make a state entry into the capital, like a Roman emperor, in a gilded

chariot drawn by four white horses abreast. If our humble equipage does

not appear too unworthy to your lordship, come with us to Paris; we are

on our way there now. Many a man shines there to-day in brave apparel,

and enjoys high favour at court, who travelled thither on foot,

carrying his little bundle over his shoulder, swung on the point of his

rapier, and his shoes in his hand, for fear of wearing them out on the

way.”

A slight flush, partly of shame, partly of pleasure, rose to de

Sigognac’s cheek at this speech. If on the one side his pride revolted

at the idea of being under an obligation to such a person as the

pedant, on the other he was touched and gratified by this kind

proposition so frankly made, and which, moreover, accorded so well with

his own secret desires. He feared also that if he refused the actor’s

kindly-meant offer he would wound his feelings, and perhaps miss an

opportunity that would never be afforded to him again. It is true that

the idea of a descendant of the noble old house of Sigognac travelling

in the chariot of a band of strolling players, and making common cause

with them, was rather shocking at first sight, but surely it would be

better than to go on any longer leading his miserable, hopeless life in

this dismal, deserted place. He wavered between those two decisive

little monosyllables, yes and no, and could by no means reach a

satisfactory conclusion, when Isabelle, who had been watching the

colloquy with breathless interest, advanced smilingly to where he was

standing somewhat apart with Blazius, and addressed the following words

to him, which speedily put an end to all his uncertainty:

“Our poet, having fallen heir to a fortune, has lately left us, and his

lordship would perhaps be good enough to take his place. I found

accidentally, in opening a volume of Ronsard’s poems that lay upon the

table in his room, a piece of paper with a sonnet written upon it,

which must be of his composition, and proves him not unaccustomed to

writing in verse. He could rearrange our parts for us, make the

necessary alterations and additions in the new plays we undertake, and

even perhaps write a piece for us now and then. I have now a very

pretty little Italian comedy by me, which, with some slight

modifications, would suit us nicely, and has a really charming part for

me.”

With her last words, accompanied though they were with a smile, she

gave the baron such a sweet, wistful look that he could no longer

resist; but the appearance of Pierre at this moment with a large

omelette created a diversion, and interrupted this interesting

conversation. They all immediately gathered round the table, and

attacked the really good breakfast, which the old servant had somehow

managed to put before them, with great zest. As to de Sigognac, he kept

them company merely out of politeness, and trifled with what was on his

plate while the others were eating, having partaken too heartily of the

supper the night before to be hungry now, and, besides, being so much

preoccupied with weightier matters that he was not able to pay much

attention to this.

After the meat was finished, and while the chariot was being made ready

for a start, Isabelle and Serafina expressed a desire to go into the

garden, which they looked down upon from the court.

“I am afraid,” said de Sigognac, as he aided them to descend the

unsteady, slippery stone steps, “that the briers will make sad work

with your dresses, for thorns abound in my neglected garden, though

roses do not.”

The young baron said this in the sad, ironical tone he usually adopted

when alluding to his poverty; but a moment after they suddenly came

upon two exquisite little wild roses, blooming directly in their path.

With an exclamation of surprise de Sigognac gathered them, and as he

offered one to each lady, said, with a smile, “I did not know there was

anything of this sort here, having never found aught but rank weeds and

brambles before; it is your gracious presence that has brought forth

these two blossoms in the midst of ruin and desolation.”

Isabelle put her little rose carefully in the bosom of her dress,

giving him her thanks mutely by an eloquent glance, which spoke more

perhaps than she knew, and brought a flush of pleasure to his cheeks.

They walked on to the statue in its rocky niche at the end of the

garden, de Sigognac carefully bending back the branches that obstructed

the way. The young girl looked round with a sort of tender interest at

this overgrown, neglected spot, so thoroughly in keeping with the

ruined château that frowned down upon them, and thought pityingly of

the long, dreary hours that the poor baron must have spent here in

solitude and despair. Serafina’s face only expressed a cold disdain,

but slightly masked by politeness. To her mind the ruinous condition of

things was anything but interesting, and though she dearly loved a

title she had still greater respect for wealth and magnificence.

“My domain ends here,” said the baron, as they reached the grotto of

the statue, “though formerly all the surrounding country, as far as the

eye can reach from the top of that high tower yonder, belonged to my

ancestors. But barely enough remains now to afford me a shelter until

the day comes when the last of the de Sigognacs shall be laid to rest

amid his forefathers in the family vault, thenceforward their sole

possession.”

“Do you know you are very much out of spirits this morning?” said

Isabelle in reply, touched by the expression of this sad thought that

had occurred to her also, and assuming a bright, playful air, in the

hope that it might help to chase away the heavy shadow that lay upon

her young host’s brow. “Fortune is blind, they say, but nevertheless

she does sometimes shower her good gifts upon the worthy and the brave;

the only thing is that they must put themselves in her way. Come,

decide to go with us, and perhaps in a few years the Château de

Sigognac, restored to its ancient splendour, may loom up as proudly as

of old; think of that, my lord, and take courage to quit it for a time.

And besides,” she added in a lower tone that only de Sigognac could

hear, “I cannot bear to go away and leave you here alone in this dreary

place.”

The soft light that shone in Isabelle’s beautiful eyes as she murmured

these persuasive words was irresistible to the man who already loved

her madly; and the idea of following his divinity in a humble disguise,

as many a noble knight had done of old, reconciled him to what would

otherwise have seemed too incongruous and humiliating. It could not be

considered derogatory to any gentleman to accompany his lady-love, be

she what she might, actress or princess, and to attach himself, for

love of her bright eyes, to even a band of strolling players. The

mischievous little boy of the bow had compelled even gods and heroes to

submit to all sorts of odd tests and means. Jupiter himself took the

form of a bull to carry off Europa, and swam across the sea with her

upon his back to the island of Crete. Hercules, dressed as a woman, sat

spinning meekly at Omphale’s feet. Even Aristotle went upon all fours

that his mistress might ride on his back. What wonder then that our

youthful baron thought that nothing could be too difficult or repulsive

in the service of the lovely being at his side! So he decided at once

not to let her leave him behind, and begging the comedians to wait a

few moments while he made his hurried preparations, drew Pierre aside

and told him in few words of his new project. The faithful old servant,

although nearly heart-broken at the thought of parting with his beloved

master, fully realized how greatly it would be to his advantage to quit

the dreary life that was blighting his youth, and go out into the

world; and while he felt keenly the incongruity of such fellow

travellers for a de Sigognac, yet wisely thought that it was better for

him to go thus than not at all. He quickly filled an old valise with

the few articles of clothing that formed the baron’s scanty wardrobe,

and put into a leathern purse the little money he still possessed;

secretly adding thereto his own small hoard, which he could safely do

without fear of detection, as he had the care of the family finances,

as well as everything else about the establishment. The old white pony

was brought out and saddled, for de Sigognac did not wish to get into

the chariot until they had gone some distance from home, not caring to

make his departure public. He would seem thus to be only accompanying

his guests a little way upon their journey, and Pierre was to follow on

foot to lead the horse back home.

The oxen, great slow-moving, majestic creatures, were already harnessed

to the heavy chariot, while their driver, a tall, sturdy peasant lad,

standing in front of them leaning upon his goad, had unconsciously

assumed an attitude so graceful that he closely resembled the

sculptured figures in ancient Greek bas-reliefs. Isabelle and Serafina

had seated themselves in the front of the chariot, so that they could

enjoy the fresh, cool air, and see the country as they passed along;

while the others bestowed themselves inside, where they might indulge

in a morning nap. At last all were ready; the driver gave the word of

command, and the oxen stepped slowly forward, setting in motion the

great unwieldy, lumbering vehicle, which creaked and groaned in

lamentable fashion, making the vaulted portico ring again as it passed

through it and out of the château.

In the midst of all this unwonted commotion, Beelzebub and Miraut moved

restlessly about the court, evidently very much perplexed as to what

could be the meaning of it. The old dog ran back and forth from his

master, who always had a caress for him, to Pierre, looking up into

their faces with questioning, anxious eyes, and Beelzebub finally went

and held a consultation with his good friend, the old white pony, now

standing with saddle and bridle on, quietly awaiting his master’s

pleasure. He bent down his head so that his lips almost touched

Beelzebub, and really appeared to be whispering something to him; which

the cat in his turn imparted to Miraut, in that mysterious language of

animals which Democritus, claimed that he understood, but which we are

not able to translate. Whatever it might have been that Bayard, the old

pony, communicated to Beelzebub, one thing is certain, that when at

last the baron vaulted into his saddle and sallied forth from his

ancient castle, he was accompanied by both cat and dog. Now, though it

was no uncommon thing for Miraut to follow him abroad, Beelzebub had

never been known to attempt such a feat before.

As he rode slowly out through the grand old portico de Sigognac felt

his heart heavy within him, and when, after going a few paces from the

château, he turned round for one last look at its crumbling walls, he

felt an acute grief at bidding them farewell which was an astonishment

to himself. As his eyes sought and dwelt upon the roof of the little

chapel where his father and mother lay sleeping side by side, he almost

reproached himself for wishing to go and leave them, and it required a

mighty effort to turn away and ride after the chariot, which was some

distance in advance of him. He had soon overtaken and passed it, when a

gentle gust of wind brought to him the penetrating, faintly aromatic

scent of his native heather, still wet from last night’s rain, and also

the silvery sound of a distant convent bell that was associated with

his earliest recollections. They both seemed to be reproaching him for

his desertion of his home, and he involuntarily checked the old pony,

and made as if he would turn back. Miraut and Beelzebub, seeming to

understand the movement, looked up at him eagerly, but as he was in the

very act of turning the horse’s head he met Isabelle’s soft eyes fixed

on him with such an entreating, wistful look that he flushed and

trembled under it, and entirely forgetting his ancient château, the

perfume of the heather, and the quick strokes of the distant bell, that

still continued ringing, he put spurs to his horse and dashed on in

advance again. The struggle was over—Isabelle had conquered.

When the highway was reached, de Sigognac again fell behind the

chariot—which moved more quickly over the smooth, hard road—so that

Pierre might be able to catch up to him, and rode slowly forward, lost

in thought; he roused himself, however, in time to take one last look

at the towers of Sigognac, which were still visible over the tops of

the pine trees. Bayard came to a full stop as he gazed, and Miraut took

advantage of the pause to endeavour to climb up and lick his master’s

face once more; but he was so old and stiff that de Sigognac had to

lift him up in front of him; holding him there he tenderly caressed the

faithful companion of many sad, lonely years, even bending down and

kissing him between the eyes. Meantime the more agile Beelzebub had

scrambled up on the other side, springing from the ground to the

baron’s foot, and then climbing up by his leg; he purred loudly as his

master affectionately stroked his head, looking up in his face as if he

understood perfectly that this was a leave-taking. We trust that the

kind reader will not laugh at our poor young hero, when we say that he

was so deeply touched by these evidences of affection from his humble

followers that two great tears rolled down his pale cheeks and fell

upon the heads of his dumb favourites, before he put them gently from

him and resumed his journey.

Miraut and Beelzebub stood where he had put them down, looking after

their beloved master until a turn in the road hid him from their sight,

and then quietly returned to the château together. The rain of the

previous night had left no traces in the sandy expanse of the Landes,

save that it had freshened up the heather with its tiny purple bells,

and the furze bushes with their bright yellow blossoms. The very pine

trees themselves looked less dark and mournful than usual, and their

penetrating, resinous odour filled the fresh morning air. Here and

there a little column of smoke rising from amid a grove of chestnut

trees betrayed the homestead of some farmer, and scattered over the

gently rolling plain, that extended as far as the eye could reach,

great flocks of sheep could be discerned, carefully guarded by shepherd

and dog; the former mounted on stilts, and looking very odd to those

unaccustomed to the shepherds of the Landes. On the southern horizon

the snow-clad tops of the more lofty peaks of the Pyrenees rose boldly

into the clear sky, with light wreaths of mist still clinging round

them here and there.

Oxen travel slowly, especially over roads where at times the wheels

sink deep into the sand, and the sun was high above the horizon before

they had gone two leagues on their way. The baron, loath to fatigue his

old servant and poor Bayard, determined to bid adieu to them without

further delay; so he sprang lightly to the ground, put the bridle into

Pierre’s trembling hand, and affectionately stroked the old pony’s

neck, as he never failed to do when he dismounted. It was a painful

moment. The faithful servant had taken care of his young master from

his infancy, and he turned very pale as he said in faltering tones,

“God bless and keep your lordship. How I wish that I could go with

you.”

“And so do I, my good Pierre, but that is impossible. You must stay and

take care of the château for me; I could not bear to think of it

entirely abandoned, or in any other hands than yours, my faithful

friend! And besides, what would become of Bayard and Miraut and

Beelzebub, if you too deserted them?”

“You are right, master,” answered Pierre, his eyes filling with tears

as he bade him farewell before he turned and led Bayard slowly back by

the road they had come. The old pony whinnied loudly as he left his

master, and long after he was out of sight could be heard at short

intervals calling out his adieux.

The poor young baron, left quite alone, stood for a moment with

downcast eyes, feeling very desolate and sad; then roused himself with

an effort, and hastened after the chariot. As he walked along beside it

with a sorrowful, preoccupied air, Isabelle complained of being tired

of her somewhat cramped position, and said that she would like to get

down and walk a little way for a change; her real motive being a kind

wish to endeavour to cheer up poor de Sigognac and make him forget his

sad thoughts. The shadow that had overspread his countenance passed

away entirely as he assisted Isabelle to alight, and then offering his

arm led her on in advance of the lumbering chariot. They had walked

some distance, and she was just reciting some verses, from one of her

parts, which she wished to have altered a little, when the sound of a

horn close at hand startled them, and from a by-path emerged a gay

party returning from the chase. The beautiful Yolande de Foix came

first, radiant as Diana, with a brilliant colour in her cheeks and eyes

that shone like stars. Several long rents in the velvet skirt of her

riding habit showed that she had been following the hounds through the

thickets of furze that abound in the Landes, yet she did not look in

the least fatigued, and as she came forward made her spirited horse

fret and prance under quick, light strokes of her riding-whip—in whose

handle shone a magnificent amethyst set in massive gold, and engraved

with the de Foix arms. Three or four young noblemen, splendidly dressed

and mounted, were with her, and as she swept proudly past our hero and

his fair companion-upon whom she cast a glance of haughty disdain—she

said in clear ringing tones, “Do look at the Baron de Sigognac, dancing

attendance upon a _Bohémienne_.” And the little company passed on with

a shout of laughter.

The poor baron was furious, and instinctively grasped the handle of his

sword with a quick, angry movement; but as quickly released it—for he

was on foot and those who had insulted him were on horseback, so that

he could not hope to overtake them; and besides, he could not challenge

a lady. But the angry flush soon faded from his cheek, and the

remembrance of his displeasure from his mind, under the gentle

influence of Isabelle, who put forth all her powers of fascination to

make her companion forget the affront he had received because of her.

The day passed without any other incident worthy of being recorded, and

our travellers arrived in good season at the inn where they were to sup

and sleep.

CHAPTER III.

THE BLUE SUN INN

It was in front of the largest house in a wretched little hamlet that

the weary oxen drawing the chariot of Thespis stopped of their own

accord. The wooden sign that creaked distractingly as it swung to and

fro at every breath of wind bore a large, blue sun, darting its rays,

after the most approved fashion, to the utmost dimensions of the board

on which it was painted. Rather an original idea, one would say, to

have a blue orb of day instead of a golden one—such as adorned so many

other inns on the great post-road—but originality had had nothing

whatever to do with it. The wandering painter who produced this

remarkable work of art happened to have no vestige of any colour but

blue left upon his palette, and he discoursed so eloquently of the

superiority of this tint to all others that he succeeded in persuading

the worthy innkeeper to have an azure sun depicted on his swinging

sign. And not this one alone had yielded to his specious arguments, for

he had painted blue lions, blue cocks, blue horses, on various signs in

the country round, in a manner that would have delighted the

Chinese—who esteem an artist in proportion to the unnaturalness of his

designs and colouring.

The few scrawny, unwholesome-looking children feebly playing in the

muddy, filthy, little street, and the prematurely old, ghastly women

standing at the open doors of the miserable thatched huts of which the

hamlet was composed, were but too evidently the wretched victims of a

severe type of malarial fever that prevails in the Landes. They were

truly piteous objects, and our travellers were glad to take refuge in

the inn—though it was anything but inviting—and so get out of sight of

them.

The landlord, a villainous looking fellow, with an ugly crimson scar

across his forehead, who rejoiced in the extraordinary name of

Chirriguirri, received them with many low obeisances, and led the way

into his house, talking volubly of the excellent accommodations to be

found therein.

The Baron de Sigognac hesitated ere he crossed the threshold, though

the comedians had all drawn back respectfully to allow him to precede

them. His pride revolted at going into such a place in such company,

but one glance from Isabelle put everything else out of his head, and

he entered the dirty little inn at her side with an air of joyful

alacrity. In the happy kingdom of France the fortunate man who escorted

a pretty woman, no matter where, needed not to fear ridicule or

contumely, and was sure to be envied.

The large low room into which Maître Chirriguirri ushered the party,

with much ceremony and many bows, was scarcely so magnificent as he had

given them reason to expect, but our strolling players had long ago

learned to take whatever came in their way without grumbling, and they

seated themselves quietly on the rude wooden settles ranged round a

rough, stone platform in the centre of the apartment, upon which a few

sticks of wood were blazing the smoke escaping through an opening in

the roof above. From an iron bar which crossed this opening a strong

chain was suspended, and fastened to it was the crane, so that it hung

at the proper height over the fire—for this was the kitchen as well as

the reception room. The low ceiling was blackened with the smoke that

filled the upper part of the room and escaped slowly through the hole

over the fire, unless a puff of wind drove it back again. A row of

bright copper _casseroles_ hanging against the wall—like the burnished

shields along the sides of the ancient triremes, if this comparison be

not too noble for such a lowly subject—gleamed vaguely in the flashing

of the red fire-light, and a large, half-empty wine-skin lying on the

floor in one corner looked like a beheaded body carelessly flung down

there. Certainly not a cheerful looking place, but, the fire being

newly replenished burned brightly, and our weary travellers were glad

to bask in its genial warmth.

At the end of one of the wooden benches a little girl was sitting,

apparently sound asleep. She was a poor, thin, little creature, with a

mass of long, tangled, black hair, which hung down over her face and

almost concealed it, as she sat with her head drooping forward on her

breast. Her scanty clothing was tattered and dirty, her feet and poor,

thin, little legs brown and bare, and covered with scratches—some still

bleeding which bore witness to much running through the thorny furze

thickets.

Isabelle, who chanced to sit down near her, cast many pitying glances

upon this forlorn little figure, but took care not to disturb the quiet

sleep she seemed to be enjoying in her uncomfortable resting-place.

After a little, when she had turned to speak to Serafina, who sat

beside her, the child woke with a start, and pushing back the mass of

dishevelled hair revealed a sad little face, so thin that the cheek

bones were painfully prominent, and pale to ghastliness. A pair of

magnificent, dark brown eyes, with heavy sweeping lashes, looked

preternaturally large in her woe-begone little countenance, and at this

moment were filled with wondering admiration, mingled with fierce

covetousness, as she stared at Serafina’s mock jewels—and more

especially at Isabelle’s row of pearl beads. She seemed fairly dazzled

by these latter, and gazed at them fixedly in a sort of ecstasy—having

evidently never seen anything like them before, and probably thinking

they must be of immense value. Occasionally her eyes wandered to the

dresses of the two ladies, and at last, unable to restrain her ardent

curiosity any longer, she put out her little brown hand and softly felt

of Isabelle’s gown, apparently finding exquisite delight in the mere

contact of her finger-tips with the smooth, glossy surface of the silk.

Though her touch was so light Isabelle immediately turned towards the

child and smiled upon her encouragingly, but the poor little vagabond,

finding herself detected, in an instant had assumed a stupid, almost

idiotic look—with an instinctive amount of histrionic art that would

have done honour to a finished actress. Then dropping her eyelids and

leaning her shoulders against the hard back of the wooden settle she

seemed to fall into a deep sleep, with her head bent down upon her

breast in the old attitude.

Meanwhile Maître Chirriguirri had been talking long and loudly about

the choice delicacies he could have set before his guests if they had

only come a day or two earlier, and enumerating all sorts of fine

dishes—which doubtless had existed only in his own very vivid

imagination—though he told a high-sounding story about the noblemen and

grandees who had supped at his house and devoured all these dainties

only yesterday. When at length the flow of his eloquence was checked by

a display of ferocity on the part of the tyrant, and he was finally

brought to the point, he acknowledged that he could only give them some

of the soup called garbure—with which we have already made acquaintance

at the Château de Sigognac, some salt codfish, and a dish of bacon;

with plenty of wine, which according to his account was fit for the

gods. Our weary travellers were so hungry by this time that they were

glad of even this frugal fare, and when Mionnette, a gaunt,

morose-looking creature, the only servant that the inn could boast,

announced that their supper was ready in an adjoining room, they did

not wait to be summoned a second time.

They were still at table when a great barking of dogs was heard

without, together with the noise of horses’ feet, and in a moment three

loud, impatient knocks upon the outer door resounded through the house.

Mionnette rushed to open it, whereupon a gentleman entered, followed by

a number of dogs, who nearly knocked the tall maid-servant over in

their eagerness to get in, and rushed into the dining-room where our

friends were assembled, barking, jumping over each other, and licking

off the plates that had been used and removed to a low side table,

before their master could stop them. A few sharp cuts with the whip he

held in his hand distributed promiscuously among them, without

distinction between the innocent and the guilty ones, quieted this

uproar as if by magic, and the aggressive hounds, taking refuge under

the benches ranged along the walls, curled themselves round on the

floor and went comfortably to sleep, or lay panting, with their red

tongues hanging out of their mouths and heads reposing on their

fore-paws—not daring to stir.

The obstreperous dogs thus disposed of, the cavalier advanced into the

room, with the calm assurance of a man who feels perfectly at his ease;

his spurs ringing against the stone floor at every step. The landlord

followed him obsequiously, cap in hand, cringing and bowing in most

humble fashion—having entirely laid aside his boasting air and

evidently feeling very ill at ease—this being a personage of whom he

stood in awe. As the gentleman approached the table he politely saluted

the company, before turning to give his orders to Maître Chirriguirri,

who stood silently awaiting them.

The newcomer was a handsome man of about thirty, with curly light hair,

and a fair complexion, somewhat reddened by exposure to the sun. His

eyes were blue, and rather prominent, his nose slightly retroussi; his

small blond mustache was carefully turned up at the ends, and scarcely

shaded a well-formed but sensual mouth, below which was a small,

pointed beard—called a royal in those days, an imperial in these. As he

took off his broad felt hat, richly ornamented with long sweeping

plumes, and threw it carelessly down on one of the benches, it was seen

that his smooth, broad forehead was snowy white, and the contrast with

his sunburnt cheeks was not by any means displeasing. Indeed it was a

very handsome, attractive face, in which an expression of frank gaiety

and good humour tempered the air of pride that pervaded it.

The dress of this gay cavalier was extremely rich and elegant; almost

too much so for the country. But when we say that the marquis—for such

was his title—had been following the hounds in company with the

beautiful Yolande de Foix, we feel that his costume, of blue velvet

elaborately decorated with silver braid, is fully accounted for. He was

one of the gallants that shone at court in Paris—where he was in the

habit of spending a large portion of every year—and he prided himself

on being one of the best dressed noblemen in France.

His order to the obsequious landlord was in few words. “I want some

broth for my dogs, some oats for my horses, a piece of bread and a

slice of ham for myself, and something or other for my grooms”—and then

he advanced smilingly to the table and sat down in a vacant place

beside the pretty _soubrette_, who, charmed with such a gay, handsome

seignior, had been pleased to bestow a languishing glance and a

brilliant smile upon him.

Maître Chirriguirri hastened to fetch what he had demanded, while the

_soubrette_, with the grace of a Hebe, filled his glass to the brim

with wine; which he accepted with a smile, and drank off at a single

draught. For a few minutes he was fully occupied in satisfying his

hunger—which was veritably that of a hunter—and then looking about him

at the party assembled round the table, remarked the Baron de Sigognac,

with whom he had a slight acquaintance, seated beside the fair

Isabelle—in whose company indeed he had seen him already once before

that day. The two young people were talking together in low tones, and

quite absorbed in each other; but the language of their eyes was

unmistakable, and the marquis smiled to himself as he took note of what

he supposed to be a very promising intrigue—wherein he did the youthful

pair great injustice. As a thorough man of the world he was not at all

surprised at finding de Sigognac with this band of vagabond players,

from such a motive, and the half-pitying contempt he had formerly felt

for the shabby, retiring young baron was straightway changed to a

certain admiration and respect by this evidence of his gallantry. When

he caught his eye he made a little gesture of recognition and

approval—to show that he understood and appreciated his position—but

paid no further attention to him, evidently meaning to respect his

incognito, and devoted himself to the _soubrette_. She received his

high-flown compliments with peals of laughter, and paid him back in his

own coin with considerable wit and much merriment, to the great delight

of the marquis—who was always delighted to meet with any adventure of

this sort.

Wishing to pursue this one, which opened so well, he declared loudly

that he was passionately fond of the theatre, and complained

pathetically of being deprived altogether of this, his favourite

amusement, in the country; then addressing himself to the tyrant he

asked whether the troupe had any pressing engagements that would

prevent their turning aside a little from the usual route to visit the

Château de Bruyères and give one of their best plays there—it would be

an easy matter to rig up a theatre for them in the great hall or the

orangery.

The tyrant hastened to reply that nothing could be easier, and that the

troupe, one of the best that had ever travelled through the provinces,

was entirely at his lordship’s disposition—“from the king to the

_soubrette_”—he added, with a broad grin.

“That is capital,” said the marquis, “and as to money matters, you can

arrange them to suit yourself. I should not think of bargaining with

the votaries of Thalia—a muse so highly favoured by Apollo, and as

eagerly sought after, and enthusiastically applauded, at the court of

his most gracious majesty as in town and country everywhere.”

After arranging the necessary preliminaries, the marquis, who had

meantime surreptitiously squeezed the _soubrette’s_ hand under the

table, rose, called his dogs together, put on his hat, waved his hand

to the company in token of adieu, and took his departure amid much

barking and commotion—going directly home, in order to set on foot his

preparations to receive the comedians on the morrow at his château.

As it was growing late, and they were to make an early start the next

morning, our tired travellers lost no time in going to rest; the women

in a sort of loft, where they had to make themselves as comfortable as

they could with the bundles of straw that were to serve them for beds,

whilst the men slept on the benches in the room where they had supped.

CHAPTER IV.

AN ADVENTURE WITH BRIGANDS

Let us return now to the little girl we left feigning to sleep soundly

upon a settle in the kitchen. There was certainly something suspicious

about the fierce way in which she eyed Isabelle’s pearl necklace, and

her little bit of clever acting afterwards. As soon as the door had

closed upon the comedians she slowly opened her large, dark eyes,

looked sharply round the great, dim kitchen, and when she found that

nobody was watching her, slipped quietly down from the bench, threw

back her hair with a quick movement of the head peculiar to her, crept

softly to the door, which she cautiously unlatched, and escaped into

the open air without making any more sound than a shadow, then walked

slowly and listlessly away until she had turned a corner and was out of

sight of the house, when she set off running as fleetly as a deer

pursued by the hounds—jumping over the frequent obstacles in her path

with wonderful agility, never stumbling, and flying along, with her

black hair streaming out behind her, like some wild creature of the

desolate pine barrens through which she was skilfully threading her

way.

She reached at last a little knoll, crowned by a group of pine trees

crowded closely together, and dashing up the steep bank with

undiminished speed came to a sudden stop in the very middle of the

grove. Here she stood still for a moment, peering anxiously about her,

and then, putting two fingers in her mouth, gave three shrill whistles,

such as no traveller in those desolate regions can hear without a

shudder. In an instant what seemed to be a heap of pine twigs stirred,

and a man emerging from beneath them rose slowly to his feet at a

little distance from the child.

“Is it you, Chiquita?” he asked. “What news do you bring? You are late.

I had given over expecting you to-night, and gone to sleep.”

The speaker was a dark, fierce-looking fellow of about five and twenty,

with a spare, wiry frame, brilliant black eyes, and very white

teeth—which were long and pointed like the fangs of a young wolf. He

looked as if he might be a brigand, poacher, smuggler, thief, or

assassin—all of which he had been indeed by turns. He was dressed like

a Spanish peasant, and in the red woollen girdle wound several times

around his waist was stuck a formidable knife, called in Spain a

_navaja_. The desperadoes who make use of these terrible weapons

usually display as many red stripes, cut in the steel, upon their long

pointed blades as they have committed murders, and are esteemed by

their companions in proportion to the number indicated by this horrible

record. We do not know exactly how many of these scarlet grooves

adorned Agostino’s _navaja_, but judging by the savage expression of

his countenance, and the fierce glitter of his eye, we may safely

suppose them to have been creditably numerous.

“Well, Chiquita,” said he, laying his hand caressingly on the child’s

head, “and what did you see at Maître Chirriguirri’s inn?”

“A great chariot full of people came there this afternoon,” she

answered. “I saw them carry five large chests into the barn, and they

must have been very heavy, for it took two men to lift them.”

“Hum!” said Agostino, “sometimes travellers put stones into their boxes

to make them seem very weighty and valuable, and deceive the

inn-keepers.”

“But,” interrupted the child eagerly, “the three young ladies had

trimmings of gold on their clothes; and one of them, the prettiest, had

round her neck a row of round, shining, white things, and oh! they were

so beautiful!” and she clasped her hands in an ecstasy of admiration,

her voice trembling with excitement.

“Those must be pearls,” muttered Agostino to himself, “and they will be

worth having—provided they are real—but then they do make such perfect

imitations now-a-days, and even rich people are mean enough to wear

them.”

“My dear Agostino, my good Agostino,” continued Chiquita, in her most

coaxing tones, and without paying any attention to his mutterings,

“will you give me the beautiful, shining things if you kill that lady?”

“They would go so well with your rags and tatters!” he answered

mockingly.

“But I have so often kept watch for you while you slept, and I have run

so far to tell you when any one was coming, no matter how cold it was,

nor how my poor, bare feet ached—and I have never once kept you waiting

for your food, when I used to carry it to you in your hiding places,

even when I was bad with the fever, or my teeth chattering with the

chill, and I so weak that I could hardly drag myself along. Oh

Agostino! do remember what I have done for you, and let me have the

beautiful, shining things.”

“Yes, you have been both brave and faithful, Chiquita, I admit; but we

have not got the wonderful necklace yet, you know. Now, tell me, how

many men were there in the party.”

“Oh! a great many. A big, tall man with a long beard; an old, fat

man—one that looked like a fox—two thin men, and one that looked like a

gentleman, though his clothes were very old and shabby.”

“Six men,” said Agostino, who had counted them on his fingers as she

enumerated them, and his face fell. “Alas! I am the only one left of

our brave band now; when the others were with me we would not have

minded double the number. Have they arms, Chiquita?”

“The gentleman has a sword, and so has the tall, thin man—a very long

one.”

“No pistols or guns?”

“I didn’t see any,” answered Chiquita, “but they might have left them

in the chariot, you know; only Maître Chirriguirri or Mionnette would

have been sure to send you word if they had, and they said nothing to

me about them.”

“Well, we will risk it then, and see what we can do,” said Agostino

resolutely. “Five large, heavy chests, gold ornaments, a pearl

necklace! they certainly are worth trying for.”

The brigand and his little companion then went to a secret place in the

thick pine grove, and set to work industriously, removing a few large

stones, a quantity of branches, and finally the five or six boards they

had concealed, disclosing a large hole that looked like a grave. It was

not very deep, and Agostino, jumping down into it, stooped and lifted

out what seemed to be a dead body—dressed in its usual every-day

clothes—which he flung down upon the ground beside the hole. Chiquita,

who did not appear to be in the least agitated or alarmed by these

mysterious proceedings, seized the figure by the feet, with the utmost

_sang-froid_, and dragged it out of Agostino’s way, with a much greater

degree of strength than could have been expected from such a slight,

delicate little creature. Agostino continued his work of exhumation

until five other bodies lay beside the first one—all neatly arranged in

a row by the little girl, who seemed to actually enjoy her lugubrious

task. It made a strange picture in the weird light of the nearly full

moon, half veiled by driving clouds—the open grave, the bodies lying

side by side under the dark pine trees, and the figures of Agostino and

Chiquita bending over them. But the tragic aspect of the affair soon

changed to a comic one; for when Agostino placed the first of the

bodies in an upright position it became apparent that it was only a

sort of a scarecrow—a rude figure intended to frighten timid

traveller—which being skilfully disposed at the edge of the grove,

partly hidden among the trees, looked at a little distance exactly like

a brigand—gun and all. Indeed it really was dressed in the garments of

one of his old comrades, who had paid the penalty of his crimes on the

gallows. He apostrophized the figure as he arranged it to his liking,

calling it by name, relating some of the brave deeds of its prototype,

and bewailing the sad fate that had left him to ply his nefarious trade

single-handed, with a rude eloquence that was not wanting in pathos.

Returning to where the others lay, he lifted up one which he reminded

Chiquita, represented her father—whose valour and skill he eulogized

warmly—whilst the child devoutly made the sign of the cross as she

muttered a prayer. This one being put in position, he carried the

remaining figures, one by one, to the places marked for them, keeping

up a running commentary upon the ci-devant brigands whose

representatives they were, and calling them each repeatedly by name, as

if there were a certain sad satisfaction in addressing them in the old,

familiar way.

When this queer task was completed, the bandit and his faithful little

companion, taking advantage of a flood of moonlight as the clouds

drifted away before the wind, went and stood on the road—not very far

from their retreat—by which our travellers were to pass, to judge of

the effect of their group of brigands. It was really very formidable,

and had often been of great service to the bold originator of the plan;

for on seeing so numerous a band apparently advancing upon them, most

travellers took to their heels, leaving the coveted spoils behind them

for Agostino to gather up at his leisure.

As they slowly returned to the pine grove he said to the child, who was

clinging to his arm affectionately as she walked beside him, “The first

stage of their journey to-morrow is a long one, and these people will

be sure to start in good season, so that they will reach this spot just

at the right time for us—in the uncertain light of the dawn. In the

darkness of night our brigands yonder could not be seen, and in broad

daylight the ruse would be apparent; so we are in luck, Chiquita! But

now for a nap—we have plenty of time for it, and the creaking of the

wheels will be sure to wake us.” Accordingly Agostino threw himself

down upon a little heap of pine branches and heather, Chiquita crept

close to him, so that the large cloak with which he had covered himself

might protect her also from the chilly night air, and both were soon

sound asleep.

It was so early when our travellers were roused from their slumbers and

told that it was time for them to resume their journey, by the

treacherous landlord of the Blue Sun Inn, that it seemed to them like

the middle of the night; to they arranged themselves as comfortably as

they could in the great, roomy chariot, and despite the loud creaking

and groaning that accompanied its every movement as it went slowly

lumbering along, and the shrill cries of the driver to his oxen, they

were all soon asleep again, excepting de Sigognac, who walked beside

the chariot, lost in thoughts of Isabelle’s beauty, grace and modesty,

and adorable goodness, which seemed better suited to a young lady of

noble birth than a wandering actress. He tormented himself with trying

to devise some means to induce her to reciprocate the ardent love that

filled his heart for her, not for an instant suspecting that it was

already a _fait accompli_, and that the sweet, pure maiden had given

him, unasked, her gentle, faithful heart. The bashful young baron

imagined all sorts of romantic and perilous incidents in which he might

constitute himself her knight and protector, and show such brave and

tender devotion to her as he had read of in the old books of chivalry;

and which might lead up to the avowal he was burning to make, yet dared

not. It never occurred to him that the look in his dark eyes whenever

they rested on her face, the tone of his voice when he addressed her,

the deep sighs he vainly sought to stifle, and the tender, eager care

with which he strove to anticipate her every wish had spoken for him,

as plainly as any words could do; and that, though he had not dared to

breathe one syllable of his passionate love to Isabelle, she knew it,

rejoiced in it, and was proud of it, and that it filled her with a

delicious, rapturous joy, such as she had never felt before, or even

dreamed of.

The morning began to break—the narrow band of pale light on the

horizon, which was growing rapidly brighter and assuming a rosy tinge,

was reflected here and there in the little pools of water that shone

like bits of a broken mirror scattered over the ground—distant sounds

were heard, and columns of smoke rising into the still morning air

proved that even in this desolate, God-forsaken part of the Landes

there were human habitations to be found. Stalking along with giant

strides on the highest part of some rising ground not very far off was

a grotesque figure, clearly defined against the bright eastern sky,

which would have been a puzzle to a stranger, but was a familiar sight

to de Sigognac—a shepherd mounted on his high stilts, such as are to be

met with everywhere throughout the Landes.

But the young baron was too much absorbed in his own engrossing

thoughts to take any note of his surroundings as he kept pace with the

slow-moving chariot, until his eye was caught and his attention fixed

by a strange little point of light, glittering among the sombre pines

that formed the dense grove where we left Agostino and Chiquita

sleeping. He wondered what it could be—certainly not a glow-worm, the

season for them was past long ago—and he watched it as he advanced

towards it with a vague feeling of uneasiness. Approaching nearer he

caught a glimpse of the singular group of figures lurking among the

trees, and at first feared an ambuscade; but finding that they

continued perfectly motionless he concluded that he must have been

mistaken, and that they were only old stumps after all; so he forbore

to arouse the comedians, as he had for a moment thought of doing.

A few steps farther and suddenly a loud report was heard from the

grove, a bullet sped through the air, and struck the oxen’s

yoke—happily without doing any damage, further than causing the usually

quiet, steady-going beasts to swerve violently to one side—when

fortunately a considerable heap of sand prevented the chariot’s being

overturned into the ditch beside the road. The sharp report and violent

shock startled the sleeping travellers in the chariot, and the younger

women shrieked wildly in their terror, whilst the duenna, who had met

with such adventures before, slipped the few gold pieces she had in her

purse into her shoe. Beside the chariot, from which the actors were

struggling to extricate themselves, stood Agostino—his cloak wrapped

around his left arm and the formidable _navaja_ in his right hand-and

cried in a voice of thunder, “Your money or your lives! Resistance is

useless! At the first sign of it my band will fire upon you.”

Whilst the bandit was shouting out these terrible words, de Sigognac

had quietly drawn his sword, and as he finished attacked him furiously.

Agostino skilfully parried his thrusts, with the cloak on his left arm,

which so disposed made an excellent shield, and watched his opportunity

to give a murderous stab with his _navaja_, which indeed he almost

succeeded in doing; a quick spring to one side alone saved the baron

from a wound which must have been fatal, as the brigand threw the knife

at him with tremendous force, and it flew through the air and fell

ringing upon the ground at a marvellous distance, instead of piercing

de Sigognac’s heart. His antagonist turned pale, for he was quite

defenceless, having depended entirely upon his trusty _navaja_, which

had never failed him before, and he very well knew that his vaunted

band could not come to his rescue. However, he shouted to them to fire,

counting upon the sudden terror that command would inspire to deliver

him from his dilemma; and, indeed, the comedians, expecting a

broadside, did take refuge behind the chariot, whilst even our brave

hero involuntarily bent his head a little, to avoid the shower of

bullets.

Meantime Chiquita, who had breathlessly watched all that passed from

her hiding place among some furze bushes close at hand, when she saw

her friend in peril, crept softly forth, glided along on the ground

like a snake until she reached the knife, lying unnoticed where it had

fallen, and, seizing it, in one instant had restored it to Agostino,

She looked like a little fury as she did so, and if her strength had

been equal to her ferocity she would have been a formidable foe.

Agostino again aimed his _navaja_ at the baron, who was at that moment

off his guard, and would not perhaps have escaped the deadly weapon a

second time if it had been hurled at him from that skilful hand, but

that a grasp of iron fastened upon the desperado’s wrist, just in time

to defeat his purpose. He strove in vain to extricate his right arm

from the powerful grip that held it like a vice—struggling violently,

and writhing with the pain it caused him—but he dared not turn upon

this new assailant, who was behind him, because de Sigognac would have

surely scored his back for him; and he was forced to continue parrying

his thrusts with his left arm, still protected by the ample cloak

firmly wound around it. He soon discovered that he could not possibly

free his right hand, and the agony became so great that his fingers

could no longer keep their grasp of the knife, which fell a second time

to the ground.

It was the tyrant who had come to de Sigognac’s rescue, and now

suddenly roared out in his stentorian voice, “What the deuce is nipping

me? Is it a viper? I felt two sharp fangs meet in the calf of my leg.”

It was Chiquita, who was biting his leg like a dog, in the vain hope of

making him turn round and loose his hold upon Agostino; but the tyrant

shook her off with a quick movement, that sent her rolling in the dust

at some distance, without relinquishing his captive, whilst Matamore

dashed forward and picked up the _navaja_, which he shut together and

put into his pocket.

Whilst this scene was enacting the sun had risen, and poured a flood of

radiance upon the earth in which the sham brigands lost much of their

life-like effect. “Ha, ha!” laughed the peasant, “it would appear that

those gentlemen’s guns take a long time to go off; they must be wet

with dew. But whatever may be the matter with them they are miserable

cowards, to stand still there at a safe distance and leave their chief

to do all the fighting by himself.”

“There is a good reason for that,” answered Matamore, as he climbed up

the steep bank to them, “these are nothing but scarecrows.” And with

six vigorous kicks he sent the six absurd figures rolling in every

direction, making the most comical gestures as they fell.

“You may safely alight now, ladies,” said the baron, reassuringly, to

the trembling actresses, “there’s nothing more to fear; it was only a

sham battle after all.”

In despair at his overwhelming defeat, Agostino hung his head

mournfully, and stood like a statue of grief, dreading lest worse still

should befall him, if the comedians, who were in too great force for

him to attempt to struggle any longer against them, decided to take him

on to the next town and deliver him over to the jailor to be locked up,

as indeed he richly deserved. His faithful little friend, Chiquita,

stood motionless at his side, as downcast as himself. But the farce of

the false brigands so tickled the fancy of the players that it seemed

as if they never would have done laughing over it, and they were

evidently inclined to deal leniently with the ingenious rascal who had

devised it. The tyrant, who had loosened, but not quitted, his hold

upon the bandit, assumed his most tragic air and voice, and said to

him, “You have frightened these ladies almost to death, you scoundrel,

and you richly deserve to be strung up for it; but if, as I believe,

they will consent to pardon you—for they are very kind and good—-I will

not take you to the lock-up. I confess that I do not care to furnish a

subject for the gallows. Besides, your stratagem is really very

ingenious and amusing—a capital farce to play at the expense of

cowardly travellers—who have doubtless paid you well for the

entertainment, eh? As an actor, I appreciate the joke, and your

ingenuity inclines me to be indulgent. You are not simply and brutally

a robber, and it would certainly be a pity to cut short such a fine

career.”

“Alas!” answered Agostino mournfully, “no other career is open to me,

and I am more to be pitied than you suppose. I am the only one left of

a band formerly as complete as yours; the executioner has deprived me

of my brave comrades one by one, and now I am obliged to carry on my

operations entirely alone—dressing up my scarecrows, as your friend

calls them, and assuming different voices to make believe that I am

supported by a numerous company. Ah! mine is a sad fate; and then my

road is such a poor one—so few travellers come this way—and I have not

the means to purchase a better one. Every good road is owned by a band

of brigands, you know. I wish that I could get some honest work to do,

but that is hopeless; who would employ such a looking fellow as I am?

all in rags and tatters, worse than the poorest beggar. I must surely

have been born under an unlucky star. And now this attempt has failed,

from which I hoped to get enough to keep us for two months, and buy a

decent cloak for poor Chiquita besides; she needs it badly enough, poor

thing! Yesterday I had nothing to eat, and I had to tighten my belt to

sustain my empty stomach. Your unexpected resistance has taken the very

bread out of my mouth; and since you would not let me rob you, at least

be generous and give me something.”

“To be sure,” said the tyrant, who was greatly amused; “as we have

prevented your successfully plying your trade we certainly do owe you

an indemnity. Here, take these two _pistoles_ to drink our healths

with.”

Isabelle meantime sought in the chariot for a piece of new woollen

stuff she happened to have with her, which was soft and warm, and gave

it to Chiquita, who exclaimed, “Oh! but it is the necklace of shining

white things that I want.”

Kind Isabelle immediately unclasped it, and then fastened it round the

slender neck of the child, who was so overwhelmed with delight that she

could not speak. She silently rolled the smooth, white beads between

her little brown fingers in a sort of mute ecstasy for a few moments,

then suddenly raising her head and tossing back her thick black hair,

she fixed her sparkling eyes on Isabelle, and said in a low, earnest

voice, “Oh! you are very, very good, and I will never, never kill you.”

Then she ran swiftly back to the pine grove, clambered up the steep

bank, and sat down to admire and enjoy her treasure. As to Agostino,

after making his best bow, and thanking the tyrant for his really

princely munificence, he picked up his prostrate comrades, and carried

them back to be buried again until their services should be needed on

some, he hoped, more auspicious occasion.

The driver, who had deserted his oxen and run to hide himself among the

furze bushes at the beginning of the affray, returned to his post when

he saw that all danger was over, and the chariot once more started upon

its way—the worthy duenna having taken her doubloons out of her shoes

and restored them to her purse, which was then deposited in the depths

of a mysterious pocket.

“You behaved like a real hero of romance,” Isabelle said in an

undertone to de Sigognac, “and I feel that under your protection we can

travel securely; how bravely you attacked that bandit single-handedly

when you had every reason to believe that he was supported by an armed

band.”

“You overestimate my little exploit,” the baron replied modestly,

“there was no danger worth mentioning,” then sinking his voice to a

whisper, “but to protect you I would meet and conquer giants, put to

flight a whole host of Saracens, attack and destroy dragons and horrid

monsters; I would force my way through enchanted forests filled with

snares and perils, such as we read of, and even descend into hell

itself, like Æneas of old. In your dear service the most difficult

feats would be easy; your beautiful eyes inspire me with indomitable

courage, and your sweet presence, or even the bare thought of you,

seems to endue me with a super-human strength.”

This was, perhaps, rather exaggerated, but perfectly sincere, and

Isabelle did not doubt for a moment that de Sigognac would be able to

accomplish fabulous deeds of prowess in her honour and for her sake;

and she was not so very far wrong, for he was becoming hourly more

passionately enamoured of her, and ardent young lovers are capable of

prodigies of valour, inspired by the fair objects of their adoration.

Serafina, who had overheard some of the baron’s impassioned words,

could not repress a scornful smile; so many women are apt to find the

fervid protestations of lovers, when addressed to others than

themselves, supremely ridiculous, yet they joyfully receive the very

same protestations, without detecting anything in the least absurd in

them when whispered into their own ears. For a moment she was tempted

to try the power of her many charms, which she believed to be

irresistible, with the young baron, and win him away from Isabelle; but

this idea was speedily rejected, for Serafina held beauty to be a

precious gem that should be richly set in gold—the gem was hers, but

the golden setting was lamentably wanting, and poor de Sigognac could

not possibly furnish it. So the accomplished coquette decided not to

interfere with this newly-born love affair, which was “all very well

for a simple-minded young girl like Isabelle,” she said to herself,

with a disdainful smile and toss of the head.

Profound silence had fallen upon the party after the late excitement,

and some of them were even growing sleepy again, when several hours

later the driver suddenly called out, “There is the Château de

Bruyères.”

CHAPTER V.

AT THE CHÂTEAU DE BRUYÈRES

The extensive domain of the Marquis de Bruyères was situated just upon

the edge of the Landes, and consisted mostly of productive,

highly-cultivated land—the barren sand reaching only to the boundary

wall of the great park that surrounded the château. An air of

prosperity pervaded the entire estate, in pleasing contrast with the

desolate region of country close at hand. Outside the park wall was a

broad, deep ditch, filled with clear water and spanned by a handsome

stone bridge, wide enough for two carriages abreast, which led to the

grand entrance gates. These were of wrought iron, and quite a marvel of

delicate workmanship and beauty. There was a good deal of gilding about

them, and the lofty apex bore a marquis’s crown above a shield

supported by two naked savages, upon which the de Bruyères arms were

richly emblazoned—it was an entrance worthy of a royal demesne. When

our party paused before it, in the course of the morning, a servant in

a rich, showy livery was slowly opening the folding leaves of the

magnificent gates, so as to admit them into the park. The very oxen

hesitated ere they took their slow way through it, as if dazzled by so

much splendour, and ashamed of their own homeliness—the honest brutes

little suspecting that the wealthy nobleman’s pomp and glitter are

derived from the industry of the lowly tillers of the soil. It

certainly would seem as if only fine carriages and prancing horses

should be permitted to pass through such a portal as this, but the

chariot of Thespis, no matter how humble, is privileged, and not only

enters, but is welcome everywhere.

A broad avenue led from the bridge to the château, passing by carefully

clipped shrubbery, whence marble statues peeped out here and there, and

a beautiful garden, with flower-beds ingeniously laid out in

geometrical patterns, and brilliant with well contrasted colours. The

narrow walks among them were bordered with box, and strewn with fine

sand of various tints, and several little fountains threw up their

sparkling jets among the flowers. In the centre of the garden was a

magnificent fountain, with a large, oblong, marble basin, and a Triton,

on a high pedestal, pouring water from a shell. A row of yews,

skilfully trimmed into pyramids, balls, and various fanciful shapes,

and placed at regular distances on each side of the grand avenue,

extended from the entrance gates to the château, their sombre hue

contrasting well with the brighter green of the foliage behind them.

Everything was in the most perfect order; not a leaf out of place, nor

a particle of dust to be seen anywhere, as if the gardeners had just

freshly washed and trimmed every tree, shrub, and plant under their

care.

All this magnificence astonished and delighted the poor comedians, who

rarely gained admission to such an abode as this. Serafina, affecting

indifference, but noting everything carefully from under her lowered

eye-lashes, promised herself to supplant the _soubrette_ in the

marquis’s favour, feeling that this great seignior was her own

legitimate prey, and ought to have devoted himself to her in the first

place, instead of weakly yielding to the vulgar blandishments of the

pretty waiting-maid, as he should no longer be permitted to do—if she

had any power.

Meanwhile the _soubrette_, feeling sure of her conquest, had given

herself up to castle-building with all the fervour of her ardent

southern nature. Isabelle, who was not preoccupied by any ambitious

projects, turned her head now and then to glance and smile tenderly at

de Sigognac, who was sitting in the chariot behind her and who she knew

must be feeling acutely the painful contrast between this splendid

estate and his own desolate, half-ruined château. Her loving heart

ached for him, and her eyes spoke sweetest sympathy to the poor young

nobleman, reduced so low a fortune, yet so worthy of a better fate.

The tyrant was deep in thought, trying to decide how, much he might

venture to demand for the services of his troupe, and mentally

increasing the amount at every step, as new glories disclosed

themselves to his wondering eyes. The pedant was looking forward

impatiently to the copious draughts of generous wine he felt sure of

enjoying in the splendid château that was now in full view, and

Leander, striving to smooth his slightly dishevelled locks with a

dainty little tortoise-shell pocket-comb, was wondering, with a

fluttering heart, whether a fair _marquise_ dwelt within those walls,

and would gaze down upon him from one of those windows as he

alighted—indulging in high hopes of the impression he should make upon

her susceptible heart.

The Château de Bruyères, which had been entirely rebuilt in the

preceding reign, was a noble structure, of immense size, three stories

in height, and enclosing a large interior court. It was built of red

brick, with elaborate, white stone facings. There were many pretty

balconies with sculptured stone railings, and large, clear panes of

glass—an unusual luxury at that epoch—in the numerous lofty windows,

through which the rich hangings within were visible; and a projecting

porch, reached by an imposing flight of broad stone steps, in the

centre of the facade, marked the main entrance. The high, steep roof

was of slate, in several shades, wrought into a quaint, pretty pattern,

and the groups of tall chimneys were symmetrically disposed and

handsomely ornamented. There was a look of gaiety and luxury about this

really beautiful château which gave the idea of great prosperity, but

not the slightest approach to vulgar pretension. There was nothing

meretricious or glaring; everything was substantial and in perfect

taste, and an indescribably majestic, dignified air, if we may be

allowed the expression, pervaded the whole establishment, which spoke

of ancient wealth and nobility under all this modern splendour.

Behind the château, its gardens and terraces, was a veritable forest of

lofty, venerable trees, forming the magnificent park, which was of

great extent, and for centuries had been the pride of the Bruyères.

Although our high-minded young hero had never been envious of any one

in his life, he could not altogether suppress the melancholy sigh with

which he remembered that in former years the de Sigognacs had stood

higher than the de Bruyères in the province, and had taken precedence

of them at court; nor could he help contrasting in his own mind this

fresh, new château, replete with every beauty and luxury that a

cultivated taste could devise and plentiful wealth procure, with his

own desolate, dilapidated mansion—the home of owls and rats—which was

gradually but surely crumbling into dust, and a keen pang shot through

his heart at the thought. He recalled the dreary, solitary, hopeless

life he had led there, and said to himself that the Marquis de Bruyères

ought to be a very happy man, with so much to make his existence

delightful. The stopping of the chariot at the foot of the broad stone

steps in the front of the château aroused him from his reverie; he

dismissed as quickly as he could the sad thoughts that had engrossed

him, endeavoured to dismiss also the dark shadow from his brow, and

jumping lightly to the ground turned and held out his hand to help

Isabelle to descend, before any one else could offer her that little

service.

The Marquis de Bruyères, who had seen the chariot advancing slowly up

the avenue, stood in the porch to receive them. He was superbly

dressed, and looked very handsome, as both Serafina and the _soubrette_

secretly remarked. He descended two or three steps as the chariot

stopped, and welcomed his guests with a friendly wave of the hand—doing

them as much honour as if they had been of his own rank—which act of

courtesy, let us hasten to explain, was because of the Baron de

Sigognac’s presence among them; but for that they would not have been

brought to the main entrance at all.

At this moment the wily _soubrette_, seeing her opportunity for a bold

stroke, prepared to alight; and as de Sigognac was fully occupied with

Isabelle, and nobody else thought of paying any attention to her—for

she always jumped to the ground as lightly as a bird, disdaining

assistance—she hesitated for a moment, with an adorable little air of

timidity, and then raised an appealing glance to the marquis. He could

not resist it, and, rushing down the steps to her aid, held out both

hands to her. With wonderful art the clever little actress managed to

slip and lose her balance, so as to fall into his extended arms,

clasping him around the neck as she did so.

“Pardon me, my lord,” said she, breathlessly, to the marquis, feigning

a confusion she was far from really feeling, “I thought I was going to

fall, and grasped your collar, just as a drowning man clutches at the

nearest object. A fall is a bad omen, you know, as well as a serious

matter, for a poor actress.”

“Permit me to look upon this little accident as a favour,” the marquis

replied, giving her a most significant glance, and lightly pressing her

yielding form in his arms before he released her.

Serafina had watched this little by-play out of the corner of her eye,

though her face was apparently turned away from them, and she bit her

lip till it bled, with vexation; so after all the _soubrette_ had

succeeded, by an abominably bold action, in compelling the marquis to

neglect her betters and give his warmest welcome to a low _intrigante_,

said the “leading lady” to herself, swelling with righteous

indignation, and abusing the offender roundly in her thoughts—wishing

that she could do it aloud, and expose her outrageous, unmannerly

artifice.

“Jean,” said the marquis to a servant in livery who stood near, “have

this chariot taken into the court, and see that the decorations,

scenery, etc., are carefully put in some convenient place; have the

luggage of these ladies and gentlemen carried to the rooms that I

ordered to be made ready for them, and take care that they have

everything they want;” then in a lower tone, but very emphatically, “I

desire that they should be treated with the utmost courtesy and

respect.”

These orders being given, the marquis gravely ascended the steps,

followed by the comedians, and having consigned them to his major-domo

to show them to their respective rooms and make them comfortable, he

gracefully bowed and left them; darting an admiring glance at the

_soubrette_ as he did so, which she acknowledged by a radiant smile,

that Serafina, raging inwardly, pronounced “abominably bold.”

The chariot meantime had made its way into a back court, accompanied by

the tyrant, the pedant and Scapin, who superintended the unloading of

the various articles that would be needed—a strange medley, which the

supercilious servants of the château, in their rich liveries, handled

with a very lofty air of contempt and condescension, feeling it quite

beneath their dignity to wait upon a band of strolling players. But

they dared not rebel, for the marquis had ordered it, and he was a

severe master, as well as a very generous one.

The major-domo, however, conducted his charges to their appointed

chambers with as profound an air of respect as if they had been real

princes and princesses; for the marquis himself had visited the left

wing of the château, where they were to be lodged, had specified the

room for each guest, and ordered that they should want for nothing—a

very unusual proceeding on his part, as he was in the habit of leaving

all such minor details to his trusty major-domo. A beautiful chamber,

hung with tapestry which represented the loves of Cupid and Psyche, was

given to the _soubrette_, the pretty, dainty, blue one to Isabelle, and

the luxurious red one to Serafina, whilst the more sober brown one was

assigned to the duenna. The Baron de Sigognac was installed in a

magnificent apartment, whose panelled walls were covered with richly

embossed Spanish leather. It was close to Isabelle’s room—a delicate

attention on the part of the marquis. This superb chamber was always

reserved for his most honoured guests, and in giving it to our young

hero he desired to testify that he recognised and appreciated his rank,

though he religiously respected his incognito.

When de Sigognac was left alone, and at liberty to think over quietly

the odd situation in which he found himself, he looked at his

magnificent surroundings with surprise as well as admiration—for he had

never in his life seen, or even imagined, such splendour and luxury.

The rich glowing colours of the chimerical flowers and foliage embossed

on a golden ground of the Spanish leather on the walls, the

corresponding tints in the frescoed ceiling and the heavy, silken

hangings at the windows and doors and round the bed, the elaborately

carved and gilded furniture, the luxurious easy-chairs and sofas, the

large mirrors with bevelled edges, and the dainty dressing-table,

lavishly furnished with all the accessories of the toilet, with its

oval glass draped with lace which was tied back with knots of gay

ribbon, certainly did make up a charming whole, and the wood fire

burning brightly in the open fireplace gave a cheerful, cosy air to it

all.

Our poor young baron blushed painfully as he caught sight of his own

figure in one of the long mirrors—his shabby, ill-fitting clothes

looked so sadly out of place amidst all this magnificence—and for the

first time in his life he felt ashamed of his poverty. Highly

unphilosophical this, but surely excusable in so young a man as our

hero. With a natural desire to improve his forlorn appearance if he

could, he unpacked the scanty supply of clothing that his faithful

Pierre had put up for him—hoping that he might come across something a

little less thread-bare than the suit he actually had on his back—but

the inspection was not satisfactory, and he groaned as he discarded one

faded, shabby garment after another. The linen was not any better—worn

so that it was thin everywhere, with numerous darns and patches, and

many holes, he could not find a single shirt that was whole and in good

condition. He was so absorbed in this melancholy inspection that he did

not hear a low knock at the door, nor notice that it was slowly pushed

open, having been already ajar, to admit the stout person of Blazius,

who approached him with many bows and flourishes, though entirely

unobserved. When the pedant reached his side de Sigognac was just

holding up before him a shirt that had as many openings as the rose

window of a cathedral, and slowly shaking his head as he gazed at it,

with an expression of utter discouragement.

“Body of Bacchus!” exclaimed the pedant—his voice, so close at hand,

startling the astonished baron, who had believed himself alone, and

safe from intrusion—“that shirt has verily a valiant and triumphant

air. It looks as if it had been worn by Mars himself in battle, so

riddled has it been by lances, spears, darts, arrows, and I know not

what besides. Don’t be ashamed of it, Baron!—these holes are honourable

to you. Many a shirt of fine linen, ruffled and embroidered, according

to the latest fashion, disguises the graceless person of some rascally

parvenu—and usurer as well perhaps—who usurps the place of his betters.

Several of the great heroes, of immortal fame, had not a shirt to their

backs—Ulysses, for example, that wise and valiant man, who presented

himself before the beautiful Princess Nausicaa, with no other covering

than a bunch of sea-weed—as we are told, in the Odyssey, by the grand

old bard, Homer.”

“Unfortunately,” de Sigognac replied, “there is no point of

resemblance, my dear Blazius, between me and the brave King of Ithaca,

save the lack of linen. _I_ have done no deeds of valour to shed a

lustre over MY poverty. I have had no chance to make myself famous, and

I fear that the poets will never celebrate my praises in glowing

hexameters. But, jesting aside, I must confess that I do feel greatly

annoyed at being forced to appear in this guise here. The Marquis de

Bruyères recognised me, though he made no sign, and he may betray my

secret.”

“It _is_ a pity,” said the pedant in reply, “but there’s a remedy for

every ill under the sun, save death, according to the old saying, and

if you will permit me, I think that I can help you out of this awkward

dilemma. We, poor players, shadows of real men and women, phantoms of

personages of every degree, from the highest to the lowest, have the

means necessary for assuming almost any character, you know. As

‘_costumier_’ of the troupe I am accustomed to make all sorts of

transformations, and can turn a miserable vagabond into an Alexander,

or a vulgar wench into a princess. Now, if you are not too proud, I

will exercise my poor skill in your lordship’s service. Since you have

been willing to join our company for this journey, do not disdain to

make use of our resources, such as they are, and put aside these

ill-fitting garments, which disguise your natural advantages, and make

you feel ill at ease. Most fortunately I happen to have in reserve a

handsome suit of black velvet, which has not the least of a theatrical

air about it, and has never been used; any gentleman could wear it, and

unless I am much mistaken it will fit you capitally. I have also the

fine linen shirt, silk stockings, shoes—with broad buckles, and cloak

to go with it—there is nothing wanting, not even the sword.”

“Oh! as to that,” cried de Sigognac, with a gesture expressive of all

that pride of birth which no misfortunes could crush, “I have my

father’s sword.”

“True,” answered Blazius, “and guard it sacredly, my lord! for a sword

is a faithful friend—defender of its master’s life and honour. _It_

does not abandon him in times of peril and disaster, like the false

friends who cling only to prosperity. Our stage swords have neither

edge nor point, for they are only intended for show; the wounds they

make disappear suddenly when the curtain falls, without the aid of the

surgeon with his instruments and lint. That trusty sword of yours you

can depend upon in any emergency, and I have already seen it doing good

service in our behalf. But permit me to go and fetch the things I spoke

of; I am impatient to see the butterfly emerge from the chrysalis.”

Having thus spoken, in the theatrical way that had become habitual with

him, the worthy pedant quitted the room, and soon reappeared, carrying

a large package, which he deposited on the table in the centre of the

chamber.

“If your lordship will accept an old actor as _valet-de-chambre_,” he

said, rubbing his hands joyfully together, “I will beautify you in no

time. All the ladies will be sure to fall in love with you, for—with no

disrespect to the larder at the Château de Sigognac be it said—you have

fasted so much in your lonely life there that it has made you most

interestingly slender and pale—just what the dear creatures delight in.

They would not listen to a word from a stout lover, even if the

diamonds and pearls of the fairy tale dropped from his lips whenever he

spoke. That is the sole reason for my want of success with the fair

sex, and I long ago deserted the shrine of Venus for the worship of

Bacchus. A big paunch is not amiss among the devotees of that merry

god, for it bears witness to plentiful libations.”

Thus running on gaily, the worthy pedant strove to amuse the melancholy

young nobleman, while he deftly performed his duties as valet; and they

were very quickly completed, for the requirements of the stage

necessitate great dexterity on the part of the actors to make the

metamorphoses frequently needed with sufficient promptness and

rapidity. Charmed with the result of his efforts he led de Sigognac up

to one of the large mirrors, wherein, upon raising his eyes, he saw a

figure which, at the first glance, he thought must be that of some

person who had entered the room without his knowledge, and turned to

ask who the intruder was—but there was no stranger there, and he

discovered that it was his own reflection—so changed that he was mute

with astonishment. A young, handsome, richly-dressed de Sigognac stood

before him, and a radiant smile parted his lips and lighted up his face

as he gazed at his own image, which perfected the really marvellous

transformation. Blazius, standing near, contemplated his work with

undisguised pride and satisfaction, changing his position several times

so as to get different views, as a sculptor might who had just put the

finishing touches to his statue altogether to his liking.

“When you have made your way at court, my lord, and regained the

position held by your ancestors, as I hope and expect that you will do,

I shall pray you to give me a refuge for my old age in your household,

and make me intendant of your lordship’s wardrobe,” said he, with a

profound bow to the baron.

“I will not forget your request, my good Blazius, even though I fear

that I shall never be able to comply with it,” de Sigognac answered

with a melancholy smile. “You, my kind friend, are the first human

being that has ever asked a favour of me.”

“After our dinner, which we are to have very shortly, we are to consult

with his lordship, the marquis, as to what play shall be given this

evening, and learn from him where we are to rig our theatre. You will

pass for the poet of the troupe; it is by no means an unheard-of thing

for men of learning and position to join a band of players thus—either

for the fun of the thing, and in hope of adventures, or for the love of

a young and beautiful actress. I could tell you of several notable

instances; and it is thought to be rather to a man’s credit than

otherwise in fashionable circles. Isabelle is a very good pretext for

you; she is young, beautiful, clever, modest, and virtuous. In fact

many an actress who takes like her the role of the ingenuous young girl

is in reality all that she personates, though a frivolous and

frequently licentious public will not credit it for a moment.”

Herewith the pedant discreetly retired, having accomplished, to his

great satisfaction, what he had really feared to propose to the young

baron, for whom he had conceived a very warm affection.

Meanwhile the elegant Leander, indulging in delightful dreams of the

possible fair _châtelaine_ who was to fall a victim to his charms, was

making his careful toilet—arraying himself in his most resplendent

finery, scrupulously kept for grand occasions—convinced that great good

fortune awaited him, and determined to carry the noble lady’s heart by

storm.

As to the actresses, to whom the gallant marquis, with princely

munificence, had sent several pieces of rich stuffs and silks, it is

needless to say that they spared no pains to make themselves as

charming as possible, and obeyed the summons to dinner radiant with

smiles and in high good humour—excepting indeed the fair Serafina, who

was inwardly consumed with envy and spite, but careful to conceal it

from all beholders.

The marquis, who was of an ardent, impatient nature, made his

appearance in the dining-room before they had quite finished the

sumptuous repast which had been served to them; he would not allow them

to rise, but seated himself at the table with them, and when the last

course had been removed, asked the tyrant to be good enough to give him

a list of the plays they were in the habit of acting, so that he might

select one for the evening’s entertainment. But so many were enumerated

that his lordship found it not easy to make a choice, and expressed his

desire to have the tyrant’s ideas upon the subject.

“There is one piece we often play,” Hérode said, “which never fails to

please, and is so full of good-natured fun and nonsense that it keeps

the audience in a roar of laughter from the beginning to the end.”

“Let us have that one, by all means,” the marquis exclaimed; “and pray

what is the name of this delightful play?”

“The Rodomontades of Captain Matamore.”

“A capital title, upon my word! and has the _soubrette_ a good part in

it?” asked his lordship, with a languishing glance at her.

“The most racy, mischievous role imaginable,” said Hérode warmly, “and

she plays it to perfection—it is her chef d’oeuvre. She is always

applauded to the echo in it.”

At this high praise from the manager, Zerbine—for such was the

_soubrette’s_ name—tried her best to get up a becoming blush, but in

vain. Modesty she had none, and the tint she would fain have called

into requisition at that moment was not contained in any of her

numerous rouge-pots. So she cast down her eyes, thereby displaying to

advantage the length and thickness of her jet-black lashes, and raised

her hand with a deprecating gesture, which called attention to its

pretty, taper fingers and rosy nails. The marquis watched he

admiringly, and she certainly was very charming in her way. He did not

vouchsafe even a glance to the other two young actresses—refraining

from testifying any marked admiration for Isabelle because of the prior

claim of the Baron de Sigognac—though he was secretly very much

delighted with her sweet, refined style of beauty, and the quiet

dignity and grace of her deportment. Serafina, who was naturally

indignant that the marquis had not even asked if there was a part for

her in the piece to be performed, accused him in her heart of being no

gentleman, and of having very low, vulgar tastes, but she was the only

one of the party that felt any dissatisfaction.

Before the marquis left them he said to Hérode, “I have given orders to

have the orangery cleared so that our theatre can be arranged there;

they are carrying planks, trestles, benches, hangings, and all other

needful articles in there now. Will you kindly superintend the workmen,

who are new to this sort of business? They will obey your orders as

they would my own.”

Accordingly the tyrant, Blazius and Scapin repaired to the orangery,

which was at a little distance from the château and admirably

calculated for the purpose it was now to serve, and where they found

everything necessary to convert it into a temporary theatre.

Whilst this work is going forward we will make our amiable, indulgent

readers acquainted with the fair mistress of the château—having

heretofore forgotten to mention that the Marquis de Bruyères was a

married man; he thought of it so seldom himself that we may surely be

pardoned for this omission. As can be readily imagined, from our last

remark, love had not been the moving cause in this union. Adjoining

estates, which, united in one, formed a noble domain, and equality of

rank had been the chief considerations. After a very brief honeymoon,

during which they had become painfully aware of a total want of

congeniality, the marquis and _marquise_—like well-bred people, making

no outcry about their matrimonial failure—had tacitly agreed to live

amicably under the same roof, but entirely independent of each other—he

to go his way and she hers, with perfect freedom. They always treated

each other in public, and indeed whenever they chanced to meet, with

the greatest courtesy, and might easily have been mistaken by a casual

observer for an unusually happy and united pair. Mme. la Marquise

occupied a sumptuous suite of apartments in the château, which her

husband never thought of entering without first sending to ascertain

whether it would be convenient for madame to receive him, like a formal

visitor. But we will avail ourselves of the time-honoured privilege of

authors, and make our way into the noble _châtelaine’s_ bed-chamber,

without any form or ceremony—feeling sure of not disturbing its fair

occupant, since the writer of a romance wears upon his finger the

wonder-working ring of Gyges, which renders him invisible.

It was a large, lofty room, hung with superb tapestry representing the

adventures of Apollo, and exhibiting every luxury that wealth could

procure. Here also a bright wood fire was, burning cheerily, and the

Marquise de Bruyères sat before her dressing table, with two maids in

attendance upon her, absorbed in the all-important business of putting

the finishing touches to her extremely becoming as well as effective

toilet. Mme. la Marquise was a handsome brunette, whose embonpoint,

which had succeeded to the slender outline of early youth, had added to

her beauty; her magnificent black hair, which was one of her ladyship’s

greatest charms, was dressed in the most elaborate fashion—an intricate

mass of glossy braids, puffs and curls, forming a lofty structure, and

ornamented with a large bow of crimson ribbon, while one long curl fell

upon her fair neck, making it look all the whiter by contrast. Her

dress of crimson silk, cut very low, displayed to advantage—the plump,

dimpled shoulders, and her snowy bosom, and from a band of black velvet

round her throat was suspended a heart-shaped locket, set with superb

rubies and brilliants. A white satin petticoat covered with priceless

old lace, over which the crimson silk gown, open in front, was looped

high upon the hips, and then swept back in a long, ample, richly

trimmed train, completed the elegant toilet of Mme. la Marquise.

Jeanne, the favourite maid and confidante, held open the box of tiny

black, “_mouches_”—without which no fashionable lady of that epoch

considered herself fully equipped—while the _marquise_ placed one, with

most happy effect, near the corner of her rather pretty mouth, and then

hesitated some time before she could decide where to put the other,

which she held ready on the tip of her forefinger. The two maids stood

motionless, breathlessly watching their mistress, as if fully impressed

with the importance of this grave question, until at last the little

black star found a resting-place just above the edge of the crimson

silk bodice, to the left—indicating, in the accepted hieroglyphics of

that age of gallantry, that he who aspired to the lips of the fair

wearer must first win her heart.

After a last lingering look in the mirror Mme. la Marquise rose and

walked slowly towards the fire, but suddenly, remembering that there

was yet one adornment wanting, turned back, and took from a beautiful

casket standing open on the toilet-table, a large, thick watch—called

in those days a Nuremberg egg—which was curiously enamelled in a

variety of bright colours, and set with brilliants. It hung from a

short, broad chain of rich workmanship, which she hooked into her

girdle, near another chain of the same description, from which depended

a small hand-mirror in a pretty gold frame.

“Madame is looking her loveliest to-day,” said Jeanne in flattering

tones; “her hair is dressed to perfection, and her gown fits like a

glove.”

“Do you really think so?” asked her mistress languidly, and with

affected indifference. “It seems to me, on the contrary, that I am

positively hideous. My eyes are sunken, and this colour makes me look

immensely stout. I have half a mind to exchange this dress for a black

one now. What do you think, Jeanne? Black makes people look slender,

they say.”

“If madame insists upon it I can quickly make the exchange; but it

would be a sad pity not to wear such an elegant and becoming costume as

madame has on now.”

“Well, let it be then; but it will be all your fault, Jeanne, if I fail

to receive as much admiration as usual this evening. Do you know

whether the marquis has invited many people to come and see this play?”

“Yes, madame, several messengers have been sent off on horseback in

different directions, and there will be sure to be a large

gathering—they will come from all the châteaux within driving

distance—for such an occasion as this is rare, here in the depths of

the country.”

“You are right,” said Mme. la Marquise, with a deep sigh, which was

almost a groan; “we are buried alive in this dreary place. And what

about these players?—have you seen them, Jeanne?—are there any handsome

young actors among them?”

“I have only had a glimpse of them, madame, and such people are so

painted and fixed up, they say, that it is hard to tell what they

really do look like; but there was one slender young man, with long,

black curls and a very good figure, who had quite a grand air.”

“That must be the lover, Jeanne, for it is always the best looking

young actor in the troupe who takes that part. It would be ridiculous,

you know, to have a stout old codger, or a very ugly man, or even an

awkward one, making declarations of love, and going down on their

knees, and all that sort of thing—it would not do at all, Jeanne!”

“No, madame, it would not be very nice,” said the maid with a merry

laugh, adding shrewdly, “and although it seems to make very little

difference what husbands may be like, lovers should always be

everything that is charming.”

“I confess that I have a weakness for those stage gallants,” Mme. la

Marquise said with a little sigh, “they are so handsome, and so

devoted—they always use such beautiful language, and make such graceful

gestures—they are really irresistible. I cannot help feeling vexed when

their impassioned appeals are received coldly, and they are driven to

despair, as so often happens in plays; I would like to call them to me

and try to console them, the bewitching creatures!”

“That is because madame has such a kind heart that she can’t bear to

see any one suffer without trying to help and comfort them,” said the

specious Jeanne. “Now I am of quite a different mind—nothing I would

like better than to flout a sentimental suitor; fine words would not

gain any favour with me—I should distrust them.”

“Oh! you don’t understand the matter, Jeanne! You have not read as many

romances, or seen as many plays as I have. Did you say that young actor

was very handsome?”

“Mme. la Marquise can judge for herself,” answered the maid, who had

gone to the window, “for he is just crossing the court this blessed

minute, on his way to the orangery, where they are rigging up their

theatre.”

Mme. la Marquise hastened to the window, and there was Leander in full

view, walking along slowly, apparently lost in thought, and wearing a

tender, sad expression, which he considered especially effective and

interesting—as we have said, he never for a moment forgot his role. As

he drew near he looked up, as by a sudden inspiration, to the very

window where the _marquise_ stood watching him, and instantly taking

off his hat with a grand flourish, so that its long feather swept the

ground, made a very low obeisance, such as courtiers make to a queen;

then drew himself up proudly to his full height, and darting an ardent

glance of admiration and homage at the beautiful unknown, put on his

broad felt hat again and went composedly on his way. It was admirably

well done; a genuine cavalier, familiar with all the gallant usages in

vogue at court, could not have acquitted himself better. Flattered by

this mark of respect for her rank and admiration of her beauty, so

gracefully tendered, Mme. la Marquise could not help acknowledging it

by a slight bend of the head, and a little half suppressed smile. These

favourable signs did not escape Leander, who, with his usual

self-conceit, took a most exaggerated view of their import. He did not

for a moment doubt that the fair mistress of the château—for he took it

for granted it was she—had fallen violently in love with him, then and

there; he felt sure that he had read it in her eyes and her smile. His

heart beat tumultuously; he trembled with excitement; at last it had

come! the dream of his life was to be accomplished; he, the poor,

strolling player, had won the heart of a great lady; his fortune was

made! He got through the rehearsal to which he had been summoned as

best he might, and the instant it was over hastened back to his own

room, to indite an impassioned appeal to his new divinity, and devise

some means to insure its reaching her that same evening.

As everything was in readiness the play was to begin as soon as the

invited guests had all assembled. The orangery had been transformed

into a charming little theatre, and was brilliantly lighted by many

clusters of wax candles. Behind the spectators the orange trees had

been arranged in rows, rising one above the other, and filled the air

with their delicious fragrance. In the front row of seats, which was

composed of luxurious arm-chairs, were to be seen the beautiful Yolande

de Foix, the Duchesse de Montalban, the Baronne d’Hagémeau, the

Marquise de Bruyres, and many other titled dames, resplendent in

gorgeous array, and vying with each other in magnificence and beauty.

Rich velvets, brilliant satins, cloth of silver and gold, misty laces,

gay ribbons, white feathers, tiaras of diamonds, strings of pearls,

superb jewels, glittering in delicate shell-like ears, on white necks

and rounded arms, were in profusion, and the scene would have graced

the court itself. If the surpassingly lovely Yolande de Foix had not

been present, several radiant mortal goddesses in the exceptionally

brilliant assemblage might have made it difficult for a Paris to decide

between their rival claims to the golden apple; but her beauty eclipsed

them all, though it was rather that of the haughty Diana than the

smiling Venus. Men raved about her, declared her irresistible,

worshipped at her shrine, but never dared aspire to her love; one

scornful glance from her cold blue eyes effectually extinguished any

nascent hope, and the cruel beauty punished presumption as

relentlessly, and won and flung away hearts with as much nonchalance,

as ever did her immortal prototype, the fair goddess of the chase.

How was this exquisite creature dressed? It would require more

_sang-froid_ than we are possessed of to venture upon a description of

her perfect toilet; her raiment floated about her graceful form like a

luminous cloud, in which one could think only of herself; we believe,

however, that there were clusters of pearls nestling amid the bright

curls that made an aureola—a veritable golden glory—about her beautiful

head.

Behind these fair ladies sat or stood the nobles and gentlemen who had

the honour of being their fathers, husbands, and brothers. Some were

leaning forward to whisper soft nothings and dainty compliments into

willing ears, others lounging and fanning themselves lazily with their

broad felt hats, and others still standing in the background looking

admiringly at the pretty group before them. The hum of conversation

filled the air, and a slight impatience was just beginning to manifest

itself among the waiting audience, when the traditional three knocks

were heard, and all suddenly subsided into silence.

The curtain rose slowly and revealed a very pretty scene representing a

public square where several streets met, surrounded by picturesque

houses with small latticed windows, overhanging gables, high peaked

roofs, and smoke curling upwards from the slender chimneys against the

blue sky.

One of these houses had a practicable door and window, whilst two of

those in the side scenes enjoyed equal advantages, and one of them was

furnished with a balcony. A few trees were scattered about in front of

the houses, and, though the painting was not of the highest order of

scenic art, the general effect was very good, and won a round of

applause from the aristocratic audience. The piece opens with a quarrel

between the testy old _bourgeois_, Pandolphe, and his daughter,

Isabelle, who, being in love with a handsome young suitor, obstinately

refuses to obey her father’s commands and marry a certain Captain

Matamore, with whom he is perfectly infatuated. She is ably supported

in her resistance by her pretty maid, Zerbine, who is well paid by

Leander, the favoured lover, to espouse his cause. To all the curses

and abuse that Pandolphe showers upon her, she answers gaily with the

most exasperating and amusing impertinences, advising him to marry this

fine captain himself if he is so fond of him; as for her part she will

never suffer her dear, beautiful mistress to become the wife of that

horrid old codger, that abominable bully, that detestable scarecrow!

Whereupon Pandolphe, furiously angry, orders her into the house, so

that he may speak to his daughter alone; and when she refuses to obey,

and defies him to make her, he takes her by the shoulders and attempts

to force her to go, but she, bending forward with admirable elasticity,

from the waist only, at each vigorous effort of his, stands her ground

and does not budge one inch from her place, breaking into peals of

laughter at every fresh attempt, and accompanying it all with an

irresistibly saucy, comical by-play, that wins her round after round of

enthusiastic applause—whilst the Marquis de Bruyères, enchanted with

her spirited acting, congratulates himself anew upon the happy chance

that threw this charming creature in his way.

Another character now enters upon the scene, looking cautiously about

him at every step, as if he feared an unpleasant surprise. This is

Leander, the horror of fathers, husbands, and guardians, the delight of

wives, daughters, and wards—in one word, the lover—the very beau-ideal

of a lover; young, handsome, ardent, ready for anything, winning over

strict old duennas, bribing pert waiting-maids, climbing up

rope-ladders, overcoming every obstacle to reach the fair mistress of

his affections, and kneeling at her feet to pour out burning

protestations of love and devotion, that no mortal woman could ever

resist. Suddenly perceiving that Pandolphe is here, where he only

expected to find Isabelle, Leander stops and throws himself into an

attitude, which he has frequently practised before the mirror, and

which, he flatters himself, shows his handsome person to great

advantage; standing with his weight thrown upon the left leg, the right

one advanced and slightly bent at the knee; one hand on the hilt of his

sword, the other stroking his chin, so as to make the big diamond on

his finger flash in the light, and a slight smile playing about his

lips. He really did look very handsome as he stood there, and was

greatly admired by all the ladies—even the haughty Yolande herself not

disdaining to smile upon him approvingly. Profiting by the opportunity

that this pause gave him, Leander fixed his eyes upon the Marquise de

Bruyères, with such a look of passionate entreaty and admiration that

she blushed crimson in spite of herself under his ardent gaze; then he

turned reluctantly towards Isabelle, with an absent, indifferent air,

which he intended should indicate to the fair object of his aspirations

the difference between real and simulated passion.

When Pandolphe becomes aware of the presence of Leander he is more

furious than ever, and hustles his daughter and her maid into the house

as quickly as possible, not, however, without Zerbine’s finding means

to take from Leander a note for Isabelle, which she slips into the

pocket of her coquettish little apron. The young man, left alone with

the irate father, assures him in the most respectful manner that his

intentions are honourable; that he asks the hand of his fair daughter

in marriage; that he is of gentle birth, has an ample fortune, and is

in high favour at court; that nothing could ever induce him to give up

Isabelle; he is ready to risk everything to win her, for he loves her

better than his life—delicious words, which the young girl listens to

with rapture from her balcony, whence she makes little signs of

approval and encouragement to her lover, quite unknown to the stern

father, whose back is turned to her, and who believes her safely locked

up in the house. Despite the mellifluous eloquence of the ardent young

suitor Pandolphe remains obstinate and unmoved, and swears, by all the

gods that either he will have Captain Matamore for his son-in-law, or

his refractory daughter shall be shut up in a convent and forced to

become a nun. Off he bustles in hot haste to find a notary and have the

contract of marriage drawn without further delay.

As soon as he is out of sight Leander tries to persuade Isabelle—who is

still in her balcony, her father having carried off the key of the

street door in his pocket—to consent to fly from such persecution, and

accompany him to the cell of a certain holy hermit whom he knows, and

who is always willing and ready to marry runaway couples like

themselves, whose loves are thwarted by tyrannical parents. But the

young girl answers modestly, yet firmly, that, although she wishes

nothing so earnestly as to be permitted to bestow her hand upon her

faithful Leander, who already has her heart, she cannot disobey her

father, for that she, like all dutiful daughters, is in duty bound to

respect and submit to the commands of the author of her being; but she

promises never to marry the detested Captain Matamore—she will go into

the convent rather than listen to him for a moment. Unable to shake her

decision Leander then retires to devise plans, with the aid of his

clever valet, to overcome the formidable obstacles in his way—more than

ever determined not to give up the fair Isabelle, and promising her to

return in the evening and report progress.

Isabelle retires from her balcony and closes her window, and a moment

after Captain Matamore strides fiercely upon the stage—his appearance

is greeted with peals of laughter—his tall, attenuated figure is

encased in an absurd costume, in which the bright red and yellow

stripes of his tunic meet in points in front and behind, whilst they

run spirally round his long, thin arms and legs, producing the most

preposterously comical effect imaginable; a stiffly-starched ruff,

immensely broad, encircles his neck, upon which his head seems to be

set, like that of John the Baptist on the charger; a large felt hat,

turned up at one side, and ornamented with a huge tuft of red and

yellow feathers, is stuck jauntily on his head, and a short cloak of

the same colour, fastened round his neck and thrown back from his

shoulders, floats behind him. He wears an enormous sword, whose heavily

weighted hilt keeps the point always raised and standing out

prominently behind him, whilst from it dangles a clever imitation of a

spider’s web—a convincing proof of how much he is in the habit of

making use of this formidable weapon. Closely followed by his valet,

Scapin, who is in imminent danger of having an eye put out by the end

of his master’s big sword, he marches several times around the stage,

taking preternaturally long strides, rolling his eyes about fiercely,

twisting the long ends of his huge mustache, and indulging in a variety

of ridiculous gestures indicative of exaggerated rage and fury, which

are irresistibly funny—all the more so because there is nothing

whatever to provoke this display of ferocity. Finally he stops in front

of the footlights, strikes an attitude, and delivers himself thus: “For

to-day, Scapin, I am willing to let my man-killer here have a little

rest, so that there may be an opportunity to get all its recent victims

decently buried, in the cemeteries I contribute so largely towards

filling. When a man has performed such feats of courage and carnage as

I have—killing my hundreds single-handed, while my dastardly comrades

trembled with fear, or turned and fled from the foe—to say nothing of

my daily affairs of honour, now that the wars are over—he may assuredly

indulge himself occasionally in milder amusements. Besides, the whole

civilized world, having now been subjugated by my good sword, no longer

offers any resistance to my indomitable arm, and Atropos, the eldest of

the dread Parcae sisters, has sent word to me that the fatal scissors,

with which she cuts the threads of human lives, have become so dulled

by the great amount of work my trusty blade has given her to do with

them, that she has been obliged to send them to Vulcan to be sharpened,

and she begs for a short respite. So you see, Scapin, I must put force

upon myself and restrain my natural ardour—refrain for a time from

wars, massacres, sacking of cities, stand-up fights with giants,

killing of monsters and dragons, like Theseus and Hercules of glorious

memory, and all the other little pastimes which usually occupy my good

sword and me. I will take my ease now for a brief period, and Death may

enjoy a short rest too. But to whom did my worthy prototype, Mars, the

great god of war, devote _his_ leisure hours? in whose sweet society

did _he_ find delight? Ask Venus, the immortal goddess of love and

beauty, who had the good taste to prefer a warlike man to all others,

and lent a willing ear to the suit of my valiant predecessor. So I,

following his illustrious example, condescend to turn my attention for

the moment to the tender sex, and pay my court to the fair Isabelle,

the young and beautiful object of my ardent love. Being aware that

Cupid, with all his assurance, would not dare to aim one of his

golden-tipped arrows at such an all-conquering hero as my unworthy

self, I have given him a little encouragement; and, in order that the

shaft may penetrate to the generous lion’s heart that beats in this

broad breast, I have laid aside the world-famed coat of mail—made of

the rings given to me by goddesses, empresses, queens, infantas,

princesses, and great ladies of every degree, my illustrious admirers

the world over—which is proof against all weapons, and has so often

saved my life in my maddest deeds of daring.”

“All of which signifies,” interrupts the valet, who had listened to

this high-blown tirade with ill-concealed impatience, “as far as my

feeble intellect can comprehend such magnificent eloquence, that your

most redoubtable lordship has fallen in love with some young girl

hereabouts, like any ordinary mortal.”

“Really, Scapin,” says Matamore, with good-humoured condescension, “you

have hit the nail upon the head—you are not so stupid after all, for a

valet. Yes, I have fallen in love, but do not imagine for a moment that

my courage will suffer diminution on that account. It was all very well

for Samson to allow his hair to be cut off, and for Alcides to handle

the distaff at the bidding of his mistress; but Delilah would not have

dared to touch one hair of my head, and Omphale should have pulled off

my boots for me—at the least sign of revolt I would have given her

worse to do: cleaning the skin of the Nemaean lion, for instance, when

I brought it home all fresh and bleeding, just as I had torn it from

the quivering carcass. The thought that has lately occurred to me, that

I have subjugated only half of the human race, is humiliating. Women,

by reason of their weakness, escape me; I cannot treat them as I do my

masculine opponents—cut their throats, run them through the body, or

hew off their arms and legs; I must lay siege to their hearts, and

conquer them in that way. It is true that I have stormed and taken a

greater number of such fair citadels than there are drops of water in

the ocean, or stars in the sky—why, I sleep on a mattress stuffed with

thousands of beautiful curls and tresses of every shade, light and

dark, golden and jet-black, which are among my most treasured trophies.

Juno herself has made overtures to me, but I turned a deaf ear to her

blandishments, finding her charms rather too ripe for my taste; I

prefer the first flush of youthful beauty; it is a pure and innocent

maiden that I would honour with my notice now, but she repulses me—that

I should live to say it!—she dares to repulse me. I cannot permit such

an impertinence on her part, and the fair Isabelle must humbly sue to

me for pardon, and herself bringing the golden keys of the citadel of

her heart, upon a salver of silver, offer them to me upon her bended

knees, with streaming eyes and dishevelled tresses, begging for grace

and favour in my sight. Go now, and summon the fortress to

surrender—this house contains the rebellious fair.”

But doors and windows remain inexorably closed, and no notice is taken

of the valet’s thundering knocks and mocking summons to surrender;

secure in the strength of their bolts and bars, the garrison, which

consists of Isabelle and her maid, vouchsafes no reply. Matamore,

becoming more enraged at each vain attempt to gain a response from his

fair enemy, stamps about the stage, roaring out his defiance,

threatening to sack and burn the place, pouring out volleys of

remarkable oaths, and lashing himself into such a fury that he actually

foams at the mouth. When his valet at length, after many vain efforts,

is able to gain a hearing, and tells him of his formidable rival,

Leander, and how he has already won the lady’s heart, all his rage is

turned against that fortunate suitor, of whom he vows that he will make

mince-meat as soon as he can lay hands on him. At this very moment

Leander himself returns, and Scapin points him out to his master as he

approaches, adding that he will keep a sharp look-out for the police

while Matamore is giving him his quietus. But the cowardly braggadocio

would fain withdraw, now that the enemy is actually in sight, and is

only restrained from flight by his servant, who pushes him forward

directly in Leander’s path.

Seeing that escape is impossible, Matamore settles his hat firmly on

his head, twists the long ends of his mustache, puts his hand on the

hilt of his big sword, and advances threateningly towards Leander—but

it is pure bravado, for his teeth are chattering with fear, and his

long, thin legs waver and tremble under him visibly, like reeds shaken

by the wind. Only one hope remains to him—that of intimidating Leander

by loud threats and ferocious gestures, if, by a happy chance, he be a

fellow of his own kidney. So in a terrible voice he addresses him thus:

“Sir, do you know that I am the great Captain Matamore of the

celebrated house of Cuerno de Cornazan, and allied to the no less

illustrious family of Escobombardon de la Papirontonda? I am a

descendant, on my mother’s side, of the famous Antacus, the ancient

hero and giant.”

“Well, you may be a descendant of the man in the moon for all that I

care,” answers Leander, with a disdainful shrug of the shoulders; “what

the devil have I to do with such absurd stuff and nonsense?”

“Blood and bones! thunder and Mars! You see, sir, you shall see, and

that very quickly, what you have to do with it, unless you take

yourself off in the twinkling of an eye. I will give you one minute’s

grace, for your extreme youth touches me, so take to your heels and fly

while there is yet time. Observe me well! I am the terror of the whole

world—my path is marked with graves—my own shadow scarcely dares to

follow me into the perils I delight in. If I enter a besieged city, it

is by the breach—when I quit it I pass under a triumphal arch; if I

cross a river, it is one of blood, and the bridge is made of the bodies

of my adversaries. I can toss a knight and his horse, both, weighted

with armour, high into the air. I can snap elephants’ bones, as you

would pipe-stems. When great Mars himself chances to meet me on the

battle-field he turns and flees, dreading the weight of my arm. My

prowess is so well known, and the terror I inspire so great, that no

one dares to meet me face to face, and I never see anything but the

backs of my retreating foes.”

“Is it so? well, you shall meet _me_ face to face. Take _that_, and see

how you like it!” says Leander laughing merrily, and giving him a

sounding slap on one cheek which almost knocks the poor devil over, and

is instantly followed by an equally hearty one on the other, to restore

his equilibrium.

During this scene Isabelle and Zerbine come out upon the balcony. The

mischievous _soubrette_ goes into convulsions of laughter, whilst her

mistress nods encouragingly to Leander. Meantime Pandolphe, accompanied

by the notary, turns the corner of one of the streets and enters the

square just in time to see Leander’s extraordinary exploit, whereat he

is horrified and amazed. The valiant captain bellows like a bull,

shrieks out the most frightful threats and curses, vowing all sorts of

vengeance, and making prodigious efforts to draw his big sword, so that

he may forthwith set about cutting up his unmannerly assailant into

mince-meat. He tugs and strains until he is red in the face, but his

“man-killer” cannot be induced to quit the scabbard and Leander,

growing impatient, follows up his first attack with a vigorous, well

directed kick, which sends the unlucky bully flying to the other side

of the stage, where he falls all in a heap and rolls in the dust. The

handsome, young gallant then bows gracefully to Isabelle and retires

from the scene.

Captain Matamore meanwhile lies sprawling on the ground, making

ludicrous and ineffectual efforts to regain his feet. Pandolphe and

Scapin go to his assistance, and when they have hauled him up, and he

has made sure that Leander is no longer present, he roars out in a

voice of thunder: “Scapin, quick, hoop me with iron bands or I shall

burst! I am in such a rage! I shall explode like a bomb! and you,

treacherous blade, do _you_ play me false at such a moment? Is it thus

you reward me for having always tried to slake your insatiable thirst

with the blood of the bravest and noblest? I don’t know why I have not

already broken you into a thousand pieces, as you so richly

deserve—false, ungrateful weapon that you are! But stay—was it to teach

me that it is unworthy of the true warrior to desert his post?—or

forget his sterner duties in the soft delights of love?—was it for that

you refused to leap from your scabbard as of old? It is true, alas!

that thus far this week I have not defeated a single army—I have killed

neither ogre nor dragon—I have not furnished his usual rations to

Death—and in consequence my trusty blade has rusted in the

scabbard—that I should live to say it! rusted!—and I have been forced

to submit to insults, and even blows, before the very eyes of my

mistress. What a lesson! Henceforth I shall make it a rule to kill at

least three men every morning before I break my fast, so as to be sure

that my good sword plays freely—keep me in mind, Scapin, do you hear?”

“Perhaps Leander will return before long,” says the valet; “suppose we

all help you to draw your ‘_trusty blade_,’ so that you may be ready

for him.”

Matamore, accordingly, plants himself firmly, holding the scabbard in

both hands, Scapin seizes the handle of the sword, Pandolphe clasps him

firmly round the waist, the notary tries to do as much by Pandolphe’s

stout person, and they all pull and pull. For some time the rusty old

sword resists all their efforts, but at last yields suddenly, and the

three fall in a confused heap on the ground, with legs and arms waving

wildly in the air, while Matamore tumbles the other way, still clinging

to the now empty scabbard. Picking himself up as quickly as possible he

seizes his big sword, which has dropped from the valet’s hand, and

waving it triumphantly says with stern emphasis, “Now Leander’s fate is

sealed! There is but one way for him to escape certain death. He must

emigrate to some distant planet. If he be sufficiently fool-hardy to

remain on this globe I will find him, no matter in what distant land he

strives to hide himself, and transfix him with this good sword—unless

indeed he be first turned to stone by the terrible Medusa-like power of

my eye.”

In spite of all that he has witnessed, the obstinate old father still

feels unbounded faith in Matamore’s valour, and persists in his

lamentable intention to bestow the hand of his fair daughter upon this

magnificent hero. Poor Isabelle bursts into tears, and declares that

she prefers the convent to such a fate. Zerbine loudly swears that this

marriage shall never take place, and tries to console her weeping

mistress. Matamore attributes this rather discouraging demonstration on

the part of Isabelle to an excess of maidenly modesty, not doubting her

_penchant_ for himself, though he acknowledges that he has not yet

properly paid his court, nor shown himself in all his glory to her—this

last from prudential motives, fearing lest she might be dangerously

dazzled and overwhelmed if he should burst upon her too suddenly in the

full splendour of his heroic character, remembering, and taking warning

by, the sad and terrible fate that befell Semele, when Jupiter,

reluctantly yielding to her wishes, appeared before her with all the

insignia of his majesty.

Isabelle and her maid withdrew from the balcony, without taking any

further notice of the valiant Matamore; but he, undaunted, wishing to

play the lover after the most approved fashion, plants himself

resolutely under her window and sends Scapin to fetch a guitar; upon

which he thrums awkwardly for a while, and then accompanies it with his

voice, in an attempt at a Spanish love song, which sounds much like the

nocturnal caterwauling of a disconsolate tabby than anything else we

can compare it to. A dash of cold water, mischievously thrown down on

him by Zerbine under pretext of watering the plants in the balcony,

does not extinguish his musical ardour. “A gentle shower from the sweet

eyes of my Isabelle, moved to tears by this plaintive melody,” says he,

“for it is universally conceded that I excel in music as in arms, and

wield the lyre as skilfully as the sword.”

Unfortunately for him, Leander suddenly reappears, and highly indignant

that this miserable rascal should presume to serenade _his_ mistress,

snatches the guitar from his hands and begins whacking him over the

head with it, so furiously that it is quickly broken through, and

slipping over the unhappy serenader’s head remains fixed round his

neck, so that he is completely at the mercy of his assailant. Holding

fast to the handle of the guitar, Leander hauls him about the stage,

banging him against the side-scenes, dragging him forward to the

footlights—making the most absurd scene imaginable—and finally, letting

go of him suddenly, sends him sprawling on the ground. Fancy the

ridiculous appearance of the unfortunate bully, who looked as if he had

put his head through a frying-pan!

But his miseries are not yet at an end. Leander’s valet had been

arranging a clever little plot to prevent the fulfilment of the

proposed marriage between Isabelle and Captain Matamore. At his

instigation, a certain Doralice, very pretty and coquettish, makes her

appearance, accompanied by a fierce-looking brother—represented by

Hérode—carrying two immensely long rapiers under his arm, and evidently

“spoiling for a fight.” The young lady complains that she has been

shamefully jilted by Captain Matamore, who has deserted her for

Isabelle, the daughter of a certain Pandolphe, and demands instant

reparation for this outrage, adding that her brother is ready to exact

it at the point of the sword, or avenge the insult by taking the life

of the heartless villain who has trifled with her youthful affections.

“Make haste to give this rascal his quietus,” says Pandolphe to his

future son-in-law; “it will be only child’s play for you, who have

fearlessly encountered, single-handed, a whole army of Saracens.”

Very reluctantly, and after many most absurd grimaces, Matamore crosses

swords with Doralice’s ferocious brother, but he trembles so that the

latter, with one quick movement, sends his weapon flying out of his

hand, and chastises him with the flat of his sword until he roars for

mercy.

To cap the climax, Mme. Léonarde comes upon the scene, mopping her

streaming eyes with an enormous pocket-handkerchief, sighing and

sobbing, and bewailing herself. She goes straight to Pandolphe and

shows him a written promise of marriage, over Matamore’s signature,

cleverly counterfeited; whereupon the poor wretch, convicted of such

abominable and complicated perfidy, is assailed with a new shower of

blows and curses, and finally condemned, by the unanimous vote of all

present, to marry old Mme. Léonarde—who has made herself as hideous as

possible—as a fitting punishment for all his deviltries, rodomontades,

and cowardice. Pandolphe, thoroughly disgusted with Matamore at last,

makes no further objections to Leander’s suit, and the curtain falls as

he gives his consent to the marriage of the two young lovers.

This _bouffonnade_, being played with great spirit, was

enthusiastically applauded. The gentlemen were charmed with the

mischievous, coquettish _soubrette_, who was fairly radiant with beauty

that evening; the ladies were greatly pleased with Isabelle’s

refinement and modesty; whilst Matamore received the well merited

encomiums of all. It would have been impossible to find, even in the

great Parisian theatres, an actor better fitted for the part he had

played so admirably. Leander was much admired by all the younger

ladies, but the gentlemen agreed, without a dissenting voice, that he

was a horridly conceited coxcomb. Wherever he appeared indeed this was

the universal verdict, with which he was perfectly content—caring far

more for his handsome person, and the effect it produced upon the fair

sex, than for his art; though, to do him justice, he was a very good

actor. Serafina’s beauty did not fail to find admirers, and more than

one young gentleman swore by his mustache that she was an adorable

creature—quite regardless of the displeasure of the fair ladies within

hearing.

During the play, de Sigognac, hidden in the _coulisses_, had enjoyed

intensely Isabelle’s charming rendering of her part, though he was more

than a little jealous of the favour she apparently bestowed upon

Leander—and especially at the tender tone of her voice whenever she

spoke to him—not being yet accustomed to the feigned love-making on the

stage, which often covers profound antipathies and real enmity. When

the play was over, he complimented the young actress with a

constrained, embarrassed air, which she could not help remarking, and

perfectly understood.

“You play that part admirably, Isabelle! so well that one might almost

think there was some truth in it.”

“Is it not my duty to do so?” she asked smilingly, secretly pleased at

his displeasure; “did not the manager engage me for that?”

“Doubtless,” de Sigognac replied, “but you seemed to be _really_ in

love with that conceited fellow, who never thinks of anything but his

own good looks, and how to display them to the best advantage.”

“But the role required it. You surely would not have had me play it as

if he disgusted me! besides, did I not preserve throughout the quiet

demeanour of a well-bred, respectable girl? If I failed in that you

must tell me how and where, so that I may endeavour to correct it in

future.”

“Oh no! you appeared from the beginning to the end like a modest,

retiring, young lady—no, there is no fault to be found with you in that

respect; your acting was inimitable—so graceful, lady-like, and

easy—but withal so true to nature that it was almost too real.”

“My dear baron, they are putting out the lights; everybody has gone but

ourselves, and we shall be left in the dark if we don’t make haste. Be

good enough to throw this cloak around my shoulders and accompany me to

the château.”

De Sigognac acquitted himself of this novel duty with less awkwardness

than might have been expected, though his hands trembled a little, and

he felt an almost irresistible desire to take her into his arms as he

wrapped the mantle round her slender form; but he restrained himself,

and respectfully offering his arm led her out of the orangery, which by

this time was entirely deserted. It was, as we have said, at a little

distance from the château, and on the level of the park, lower than the

mansion, which stood on a high terrace, with a handsome stone

balustrade at the edge, supporting at regular intervals large vases

filled with blooming plants, in the pretty Italian fashion. A broad,

easy flight of stone steps led up to the terrace, affording in their

ascent a most imposing view of the château, which loomed up grandly

against the evening sky. Many of the windows on this side were lighted,

whilst the others glistened brightly as the silvery moon-beams struck

upon them—as did also the dewdrops on the shrubbery and the

grass-plots—as if a shower of diamonds had fallen on this favoured

spot. Looking towards the park, the long vistas cut through the wood,

losing themselves in the hazy blue of the distance, called to mind

Breughel’s famous picture of Paradise, or else disclosed the far-away

gleam of a marble statue, or the spray of a misty fountain sparkling in

the moonlight.

Isabelle and de Sigognac slowly ascended the broad steps, pausing

frequently to turn and look back at this enchanting scene, and charmed

with the beauty of the night walked for a little while to and fro upon

the terrace before retiring to their rooms. As they were in full sight

of the windows, and it was not yet very late, the modest young girl

felt that there could be no impropriety in this little indulgence; and

besides, the baron’s extreme timidity was very reassuring to her, and

she knew that he would not presume upon the favour accorded to him. He

had not made a formal avowal of his love to her, but she was as well

aware of it as if he had, and also of his profound respect for her,

which sentiment is indeed always an accompaniment of a worthy passion.

She knew herself beloved—the knowledge was very sweet to her—and she

felt herself safe from all fear of offence in the company of this

honourable gentleman and true lover. With the delicious embarrassment

of nascent, unavowed love, this young couple wandering by moonlight in

a lonely garden, side by side, arm in arm, only exchanged the most

insignificant, commonplace remarks; but if no undercurrent was betrayed

by actual words, the trembling, voices, long pauses, stifled sighs, and

low, confidential tones told of strong emotions beneath this quiet

surface.

The chamber assigned to the beautiful Yolande de Foix, near that of

Mme. la Marquise, was on this side of the château, overlooking the

park, and after she had dismissed her maid, she went to the window to

look out once more upon the exceeding beauty of the night, and caught

sight of de Sigognac and Isabelle, pacing slowly back and forth on the

terrace below, without any other company than their own shadows.

Assuredly the disdainful Yolande, haughty as a goddess, could never

have felt anything but scorn for our poor young baron, past whom she

had sometimes flashed in a whirlwind of light and noise in the chase,

and whom she had so recently cruelly insulted; but still it displeased

her to see him devoting himself thus to a beautiful young girl, to whom

he was undoubtedly making love at that very moment. She had regarded

him as her own humble vassal—for she had not failed to read the

passionate admiration in his eyes whenever they met her own—and could

not brook his shaking off his allegiance thus; her slaves ought to live

and die in her service, even though their fidelity were never rewarded

by a single smile. She watched them, with a frowning brow, until they

disappeared, and then sought her couch in anything but a tranquil mood,

haunted by the lover-like pair that had so roused her wrath, and still

kept her long awake.

De Sigognac escorted Isabelle to the door of her chamber, where he bade

her good-night, and as he turned away towards his own, saw, at the end

of the corridor, a mysterious looking individual closely wrapped in a

large cloak, with one end thrown over the shoulder in Spanish fashion,

and so drawn up round his face that only the eyes were visible; a

slouch hat concealed his forehead, so that he was completely disguised,

yet he drew back hurriedly into a dark corner when de Sigognac turned

towards him, as if to avoid his notice. The baron knew that the

comedians had all gone to their rooms already, and besides, it could

not be one of them, for the tyrant was much larger and taller, the

pedant a great deal stouter, Leander more slender, Matamore much

thinner, and Scapin of quite a different make. Not wishing to appear

curious, or to annoy the unknown in any way, de Sigognac hastened to

enter his own room—not however without having observed that the door of

the tapestry-hung chamber stood ajar. When he had closed his, he heard

stealthy footsteps approaching, and presently a bolt shot home softly,

then profound silence.

About an hour later, Leander opened his door as quietly as possible,

looked carefully to see if the corridor was empty, and then, stepping

as lightly and cautiously as a gipsy performing the famous egg-dance,

traversed its whole length, reached the staircase, which he descended

as noiselessly as the phantoms in a haunted castle, and passed out into

the moonlight; he crept along in the shadow of the wall and of some

thick shrubbery, went down the steps into the park, and made his way to

a sort of bower, where stood a charming statue of the mischievous

little god of love, with his finger on his lip—an appropriate presiding

genius of a secret rendezvous, as this evidently must be. Here he

stopped and waited, anxiously watching the path by which he had come,

and listening intently to catch the first sound of approaching

footsteps.

We have already related how Leander, encouraged by the smile with which

Mme. la Marquise acknowledged his salutation, and convinced that she

was smitten with his beauty and grace, had made bold to address a

letter to her, which he bribed Jeanne to place secretly upon her

mistress’s toilet-table, where she would be sure to see it. This letter

we copy here at length, so as to give an idea of the style of

composition employed by Leander in addressing the great ladies of whose

favours he boasted so loudly.

“Madame, or rather fair goddess of beauty, do not blame anything but

your own incomparable charms for this intrusion upon you. I am forced

by their radiance to emerge from the deep shadow in which I should

remain shrouded, and approach their dazzling brilliancy—just as the

dolphins are attracted from the depths of ocean, by the brightness of

the fisherman’s lanterns, though they are, alas! to find destruction

there, and perish by the sharp harpoons hurled pitilessly at them with

unerring aim. I know but too well that the waves will be reddened by my

blood; but as I cannot live without your favour, I do not fear to meet

death thus. It may be strangely audacious, on my part to pretend to the

privileges of gods and demi-gods—to die by your fair hand—but I dare to

aspire to it; being already in despair, nothing worse can come to me,

and I would rather incur your wrath than your scorn, or your disdain.

In order to direct the fatal blow aright, the executioner must look

upon his victim, and I shall have, in yielding up my life under your

fair, cruel hand, the supreme delight of being for one blissful moment

the object of your regard. Yes, I love you, madame! I adore you! And if

it be a crime, I cannot repent of it. God suffers himself to be adored;

the stars receive the admiration of the humblest shepherd; it is the

fate of all such lofty perfection as yours to, be beloved, adored, only

by inferior beings, since it has not its equal upon earth, nor scarcely

indeed in heaven. I, alas! am but a poor, wandering actor, yet were I a

haughty duke or prince, my head would not be on a level with your

beauteous feet, and there would be, all the same, between your heavenly

height and my kneeling adoration, as great a distance as from the

soaring summit of the loftiest Alp to the yawning abyss far, far below.

You must always stoop to reach a heart that adores you. I dare to say,

madame, that mine is as proud as it is tender, and she who would deign

not to repulse it, would find in it the most ardent love, the most

perfect delicacy, the most absolute respect, and unbounded devotion.

Besides, if such divine happiness be accorded me, your indulgence would

not have to stoop so low as you might fancy. Though reduced by an

adverse destiny and the jealous hatred of one of the great ones of the

earth, who must be nameless, to the dire necessity of hiding myself

under this disguise, I am not what I seem. I do not need to blush for

my birth—rather I may glory in it. If I dared to betray the secrecy

imposed upon me, for reasons of state, I could prove to you that most

illustrious blood runs in my veins. Whoever may love me, noble though

she be, will not degrade herself. But I have already said too much—my

lips are sealed. I shall never be other than the humblest, most devoted

of your slaves; even though, by one of those strange coincidences that

happen sometimes in real life, I should come to be recognised by all

the world as a king’s son. If in your great goodness you will

condescend to show me, fair goddess of beauty, by the slightest sign,

that my boldness has not angered you, I shall die happy, consumed by

the burning brightness of your eyes upon the funeral pyre of my love.”

How would Mme. la Marquise have received this ardent epistle? which had

perhaps done him good service already more than once. Would she have

looked favourably upon her humble suitor?—who can tell?—for the

feminine heart is past comprehension. Unfortunately the letter did not

reach her. Being entirely taken up with great ladies, Leander

overlooked their waiting-maids, and did not trouble himself to show

them any attentions or gallantries—wherein he made a sad mistake—for if

the _pistoles_ he gave to Jeanne, with his precious epistle, had been

supplemented by a few kisses and compliments, she would have taken far

more pains to execute his commission. As she held the letter carelessly

in her hand, the marquis chanced to pass by, and asked her idly what

she had got there.

“Oh! nothing much,” she answered scornfully, “only a note from Mr.

Leander to Mme. la Marquise.”

“From Leander? that jackanapes who plays the lover in the Rodomontades

of Captain Matamore? What in the world can _he_ have to say to Mme. la

Marquise? Doubtless he asks for a gratuity!”

“I don’t think so,” said the spiteful waiting-maid; “when he gave me

this letter he sighed, and rolled up his eyes like a love-sick swain.”

“Give me the letter,” said the marquis, “_I_ will answer it—and don’t

say anything about it to your mistress. Such chaps are apt to be

impertinent—they are spoiled by admiration, and sometimes presume upon

it.”

The marquis, who dearly loved a joke, amused himself by answering

Leander’s extraordinary epistle with one in much the same style—written

in a delicate, lady-like hand upon perfumed paper, and sealed with a

fanciful device—altogether a production well calculated to deceive the

poor devil, and confirm him in his ridiculous fancies. Accordingly,

when he regained his bed-chamber after the play was over, he found upon

his dressing-table a note addressed to himself. He hastened to open it,

trembling from head to foot with excitement and delight, and read as

follows: “It is true, as you say so eloquently—too eloquently for my

peace of mind—that goddesses can only love mortals. At eleven o’clock,

when all the world is sunk in slumber, and no prying human eyes open to

gaze upon her, Diana will quit her place in the skies above and descend

to earth, to visit the gentle shepherd, Endymion—not upon Mount Latmus,

but in the park—at the foot of the statue of silent love. The handsome

shepherd must be sure to have fallen asleep ere Diana appears, so as

not to shock the modesty of the immortal goddess—who will come without

her cortege of nymphs, wrapped in a cloud and devoid of her silvery

radiance.”

We will leave to the reader’s imagination the delirious joy that filled

to overflowing the foolish heart of the susceptible Leander, who was

fooled to the top of his bent, when he read this precious note, which

exceeded his wildest hopes. He immediately began his preparations to

play the part of Endymion—poured a whole bottle of perfume upon his

hair and hands, chewed a flower of mace to make his breath sweet,

twisted his glossy curls daintily round his white fingers—though not a

hair was awry—and then waited impatiently for the moment when he should

set forth to seek the rendezvous at the foot of the statue of silent

love—where we left him anxiously awaiting the arrival of his goddess.

He shivered nervously from excitement, and the penetrating chilliness

of the damp night air, as he stood motionless at the appointed spot. He

trembled at the falling of a leaf—the crackling of the gravel under his

feet whenever he moved them sounded so loud in his ears that he felt

sure it would be heard at the château. The mysterious darkness of the

wood filled him with awe, and the great, black trees seemed like

terrible genii, threatening him. The poor wretch was not exactly

frightened, but not very far from it. Mme. la Marquise was tardy—Diana

was leaving her faithful Endymion too long cooling his heels in the

heavy night dew. At last he thought he heard heavy footsteps

approaching,—but they could not be those of his goddess—he must be

mistaken—goddesses glide so lightly over the sward that not even a

blade of grass is crushed beneath their feet—and, indeed, all was

silent again.

“Unless Mme. la Marquise comes quickly, I fear she will find only a

half-frozen lover, instead of an ardent, impatient one,” murmured

Leander with chattering teeth; and even as the words escaped him four

dark shadows advanced noiselessly from behind upon the expectant

gallant. Two of these shadows, which were the substantial bodies of

stout rascals in the service of the Marquis de Bruyères, seized him

suddenly by the arms, which they held pinioned closely to his sides,

while the other two proceeded to rain blows alternately upon his

back—keeping perfect time as their strokes fell thick and fast. Too

proud to run the risk of making his woes public by an outcry, their

astonished victim took his punishment bravely—without making a sound.

Mutius Scaevola did not bear himself more heroically while his right

hand lay among the burning coals upon the altar in the presence of

Porsenna, than did Leander under his severe chastisement. When it was

finished the two men let go of their prisoner, all four saluted him

gravely, and retired as noiselessly as they had come, without a single

word being spoken.

What a terrible fall was this! that famous one of Icarus himself,

tumbling down headlong from the near neighbourhood of the sun, was not

a greater. Battered, bruised, sore and aching all over, poor Leander,

crestfallen and forlorn, limping painfully, and suppressing his groans

with Spartan resolution, crept slowly back to his own room; but so

overweening was his self-conceit that he never even suspected that a

trick had been played upon him. He said to himself that without doubt

Mme. la Marquise had been watched and followed by her jealous husband,

who had overtaken her before she reached the rendezvous in the park,

carried her back to the château by main strength, and forced her, with

a poniard at her throat, to confess all. He pictured her to himself on

her knees, with streaming eyes, disordered dress and dishevelled hair,

imploring her stern lord and master to be merciful—to have pity upon

her and forgive her this once—vowing by all she held sacred never to be

faithless to him again, even in thought. Suffering and miserable as he

was after his tremendous thrashing, he yet pitied and grieved over the

poor lady who had put herself in such peril for his sake, never

dreaming that she was in blissful ignorance of the whole affair, and at

that very moment sleeping peacefully in her luxurious bed. As the poor

fellow crept cautiously and painfully along the corridor leading to his

room and to those of the other members of the troupe he had the

misfortune to be detected by Scapin, who, evidently on the watch for

him, was peeping out of his own half-open door, grinning, grimacing,

and gesticulating significantly, as he noted the other’s limping gait

and drooping figure.

In vain did Leander strive to straighten himself up and assume a gay,

careless air; his malicious tormentor was not in the least taken in by

it.

The next morning the comedians prepared to resume their journey; no

longer, however, in the slow-moving, groaning ox-cart, which they were

glad, indeed, to exchange for the more roomy, commodious vehicle that

the tyrant had been able to hire for them—thanks to the marquis’s

liberality—in which they could bestow themselves and their belongings

comfortably, and to which was harnessed four stout draught horses.

Leander and Zerbine were both rather late in rising, and the last to

make their appearance—the former with a doleful countenance, despite

his best efforts to conceal his sufferings under a cheerful exterior,

the latter beaming with satisfaction, and with smiles for everybody.

She was decidedly inclined to be munificent towards her companions, and

bestow upon them some of the rich spoils that had fallen plentifully to

her share—taking quite a new position among them—even the duenna

treating her with a certain obsequious, wheedling consideration, which

she had been far from ever showing her before. Scapin, whose keen

observation nothing ever escaped, noticed that her box had suddenly

doubled in weight, by some magic or other, and drew his own conclusions

therefrom. Zerbine was a universal favourite, and no one begrudged her

her good fortune, save Serafina, who bit her lip till it bled, and

murmured indignantly, “Shameless creature!” but the _soubrette_

pretended not to hear it, content for the moment with the signal

humiliation of the arch-coquette.

At last the new Thespian chariot was ready for a start, and our

travellers bade adieu to the hospitable château, where they had been so

honourably received and so generously treated, and which they all,

excepting poor Leander, quitted with regret. The tyrant dwelt upon the

bountiful supply of _pistoles_ he had received; the pedant upon the

capital wines of which he had drunk his fill; Matamore upon the

enthusiastic applause that had been lavished upon him by that

aristocratic audience; Zerbine upon the pieces of rich silk, the golden

necklaces and other like treasures with which her chest was replete—no

wonder that it was heavy—while de Sigognac and Isabelle, thinking only

of each other, and happy in being together, did not even turn their

heads for one last glimpse of the handsome Château de Bruyere.

CHAPTER VI.

A SNOW-STORM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

As may be readily supposed, the comedians were well satisfied with the

kind treatment they had received during their brief sojourn at the

Château de Bruyères; such a piece of good fortune did not often fall to

their lot, and they rejoiced in it exceedingly. The tyrant had

distributed among them each one’s share of the marquis’s liberal

remuneration for their services, and it was wonderfully pleasant to

them to have broad pieces in the purses usually so scantily supplied,

and not infrequently quite empty. Zerbine, who was evidently rejoicing

over some secret source of satisfaction, accepted good-naturedly all

the taunts and jokes of her companions upon the irresistible power of

her charms. She was triumphant, and could afford to be laughed

at—indeed, joined heartily in the general merriment at her own

expense—while Serafina sulked openly, with “envy, hatred, and malice”

filling her heart. Poor Leander, still smarting from his severe

beating, sore and aching, unable to find an easy position, and

suffering agonies from the jolting of the chariot, found it hard work

to join in the prevailing gaiety.

When he thought no one was looking at him, he would furtively rub his

poor, bruised shoulders and arms with the palm of his hand, which

stealthy manœuvre might very readily have passed unobserved by the rest

of the company, but did not escape the wily valet, who was always on

the lookout for a chance to torment Leander; his monstrous self-conceit

being intensely exasperating to him. A harder jolt than usual having

made the unfortunate gallant groan aloud, Scapin immediately opened his

attack, feigning to feel the liveliest commiseration for him.

“My poor Leander, what is the matter with you this morning? You moan

and sigh as if you were in great agony! Are you really suffering so

acutely? You seem to be all battered and bruised, like the Knight of

the Sorrowful Countenance, after he had capered stark naked, for a love

penance, among the rocks in the Sierra Morena, in humble imitation of

his favourite hero, Amadis de Gaul. You look as if you had not slept at

all last night, and had been lying upon hard sticks, rods, or clubs,

instead of in a soft, downy bed, such as were given to the rest of us

in the fine château yonder. Tell us, I pray you, did not Morpheus once

visit you all the night through?”

“Morpheus may have remained shut up in his cavern, but Cupid is a

wanderer by night, who does not need a lantern to find the way to those

fortunate individuals he favours with a visit,” Leander replied, hoping

to divert attention from the tell-tale bruises, that he had fancied

were successfully concealed.

“I am only a humble valet, and have had no experience in affairs of

gallantry. I never paid court to a fine lady in my life; but still, I

do know this much, that the mischievous little god, Cupid, according to

all the poets, aims his arrows at the hearts of those he wishes to

wound, instead of using his bow upon their backs.”

“What in the world do you mean?” Leander interrupted quickly, growing

seriously uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking.

“Oh! nothing; only that I see, in spite of all your efforts to hide it

with that handkerchief knotted so carefully round your neck, that you

have there on the back of it a long, black mark, which to-morrow will

be indigo, the day after green, and then yellow, until it fades away

altogether, like any other bruise—a black mark that looks devilishly

like the authentic flourish which accompanies the signature of a good,

stout club on a calf’s skin—or on vellum, if that term pleases you

better.”

“Ah! my good Scapin, you do not understand such matters,” Leander

replied, a scarlet flush mounting to the very roots of his hair, and at

his wits’ ends to know how to silence his tormentor; “doubtless some

dead and gone beauty, who loved me passionately during her lifetime,

has come back and kissed me there while I was sleeping; as is well

known, the contact of the lips of the dead leave strange, dark marks,

like bruises, on human flesh, which the recipient of the mysterious

caress is astonished to find upon awaking.”

“Your defunct beauty visited you and bestowed her mysterious caress

very apropos,” remarked Scapin, incredulously; “but I would be willing

to take my oath that yonder vigorous kiss had been imprinted upon your

lily-white neck by the stinging contact of a stout club.”

“Unmannerly jester and scoffer that you are! is nothing sacred to you?”

broke in Leander, with some show of heat.

“You push my modesty too far. I endeavoured delicately to put off upon

a dead beauty what I should have ascribed to a living one. Ignorant and

unsophisticated though you claim to be, have you never heard of kisses

so ardent that such traces of them are left?—where pearly teeth have

closed upon the soft flesh, and made their mark on the white skin?”

“Memorem dente notam,” interrupted the pedant, charmed to have a chance

to quote Horace.

“This explanation appears to me very judicious,” Scapin said; then,

with a low bow to the pedant, “and is sustained by unquestionable if

incomprehensible authority; but the mark is so long that this nocturnal

beauty of yours, dead or alive, must have had in her lovely mouth that

famous tooth which the three Gorgon sisters owned among them, and

passed about from one to the other.”

This sally was followed by a roar of laughter, and Leander, beside

himself with rage, half rose, to throw himself upon Scopin, and

chastise him then and there for his insufferable impertinence; but he

was so stiff and sore from his own beating, and the pain in his back,

which was striped like a zebra’s, was so excruciating, that he sank

back into his place with a suppressed groan, and concluded to postpone

his revenge to some more convenient season. Hérode and Blazius, who

were accustomed to settle such little disputes, insisted upon their

making up their differences, and a sort of reconciliation took

place-Scapin promising never to allude to the subject again, but

managing to give poor Leander one or two more digs that made him wince

even as he did so.

During this absurd altercation the chariot had been making steady

progress, and soon arrived at an open space where another great

post-road crossed the one they were following, at right angles. A large

wooden crucifix, much the worse for long exposure to the weather, had

been erected upon a grassy mound at the intersection of the two

highways. A group, consisting of two men and three mules, stood at its

foot, apparently awaiting some one’s arrival. As they approached, one

of the mules, as if weary of standing still, impatiently shook its

head, which was gaily decorated with bright, many-coloured tufts and

tassels, and set all the little silver bells about it ringing sharply.

Although a pair of leather blinkers, decked with gay embroidery,

effectually prevented its seeing to the right or to the left, it

evidently was aware of the approach of the chariot before the men’s

senses had given them any intimation of it.

“The Colonelle shakes her ear-trumpets and shows her teeth,” said one

of them; “they cannot be far off now.”

In effect, after a very few minutes the chariot was seen approaching,

and presently rolled into the open space. Zerbine, who sat in front,

glanced composedly at the little group of men and mules standing there,

without betraying any surprise at seeing them.

“By Jove! those are fine beasts yonder,” exclaimed the tyrant,

“splendid Spanish mules, especially that foremost one; they can easily

do their fifteen or twenty leagues a day, I’ll venture, and if we were

mounted on the like we should soon find ourselves in Paris. But what

the devil are they doing in this lonely place? it must be a relay,

waiting for some rich seignior travelling this way.”

“No,” said the duenna, “that foremost mule is intended for a lady—don’t

you see the cushions and housings?”

“In that case,” he replied, “there must be an abduction in the wind;

those two equerries, in gray liveries, certainly have a very

mysterious, knowing sort of an air.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Zerbine, demurely, with a significant

little smile and shrug.

“Can it be possible that the lady is among us?” asked Scapin; “one of

the men is coming this way by himself, as if he desired to parley

before resorting to violence.”

“Oh! there’ll be no need,” said Serafina, casting a scornful glance at

the _soubrette_, who returned it with interest.

“There are bold creatures that go of their own accord, without waiting

to be carried off.”

“And there are others who are NOT carried off, that would like to be,”

retorted the _soubrette_, “but the desire is not sufficient; a few

charms are needed too.”

At this point the equerry who had advanced to meet the chariot made a

sign to them to stop, and, cap in hand, politely asked if Mlle. Zerbine

was among them. The _soubrette_ herself answered this inquiry in the

affirmative, and sprang to the ground as lightly as a bird.

“Mademoiselle, I am at your disposal,” said the equerry to her, in a

respectful and gallant tone. Zerbine shook out her skirts, adjusted her

wraps, and then, turning towards the comedians, delivered this little

harangue: “My dear comrades, I pray you pardon me for quitting you in

this unceremonious manner. There are times when Opportunity offers

itself suddenly for our acceptance, and we must seize it without delay,

or lose it altogether; he would be a fool who let it slip through his

fingers, for once relinquished it returns not again. The face of

Fortune, which until now has always frowned upon me, at last vouchsafes

me a smile, and I am delighted to enjoy its brightness, even though it

may prove to be only fleeting. In my humble role of _soubrette_, I

could not aspire to, or expect to receive, the admiration of rich lords

and gentlemen—that is for my betters; and now that a happy chance has

thrown such an unhoped-for piece of good luck in my way, you will not

blame me, I am confident, for gladly accepting it. Let me take my

belongings then—which are packed in the chariot with the others—and

receive my adieux. I shall be sure to rejoin you some day, sooner or

later, at Paris, for I am a born actress; the theatre was my first

love, and I have never long been faithless to it.”

The two men accordingly, aided by the comedians, took Zerbine’s boxes

out of the chariot, and adjusted them carefully on the pack-mule. The

_soubrette_ made a sweeping curtsey to her friends in the chariot, and

threw a kiss to Isabelle from her finger tips, then, aided by one of

the equerries, sprang to her place behind him, on the back of the

Colonelle, as lightly and gracefully as if she had been taught the art

of mounting in an equestrian academy, nodded a last farewell, and

striking the mule sharply with the high heel of her pretty little shoe,

set off at a round pace.

“Good-bye, and good luck to you, Zerbine,” cried the comedians

heartily, one and all; save only Serafina, who was more furiously angry

with her than ever.

“This is an unfortunate thing for us,” said the tyrant regretfully, “a

serious loss. I wish with all my heart that we could have kept that

capital little actress with us; we shall not easily find any one to

replace her, even in Paris; she is really incomparable in her own

role—but she was not in any way bound to stay with us a moment longer

than she chose. We shall have to substitute a duenna, or a chaperon,

for the _soubrette_ in our pieces for the present; it will be less

pleasing of course, but still Mme. Léonarde here is a host in herself,

and we shall manage to get on very nicely, I dare say.”

The chariot started on its way again as he spoke, at rather a better

pace than the lumbering old ox-cart. They were travelling through a

part of the country now which was a great contrast to the desolate

Landes. To the Baron de Sigognac, who had never been beyond their

desolate expanse before, it was a revelation, and he could not

sufficiently admire the richness and beauty of this region. The

productive, red soil was highly cultivated—not an inch of ground

neglected—comfortable, often handsome, stone houses scattered along

their route at frequent intervals, and surrounded by large, luxuriant

gardens, spoke of a well-to-do population. On each side of the broad,

smooth road was a row of fine trees, whose falling leaves lay piled

upon the ground in yellow heaps, or whirled in the wind before de

Sigognac and Isabelle, as they walked along beneath their spreading

branches, finding the exercise a welcome relief after sitting for a

long time in the chariot in rather a cramped position. One day as they

were walking thus side by side, de Sigognac said to his fair companion,

“I wish you would tell me, Isabelle, how it has happened that you, with

all the characteristics of a lady of lofty lineage in the innate

modesty and dignity of your manners, the refinement and purity of your

language, the incomparable grace of your carriage, the elevation of

your sentiments upon all subjects, to say nothing of the delicate,

aristocratic type of your beauty—should have become a member of a

wandering band of players like this—good, honest people no doubt, but

not of the same rank or race as yourself.”

“Don’t fancy that I am a princess in disguise, or a great lady reduced

to earn my living in this way,” she replied, with an adorable smile,

“merely because of some good qualities you think you have discovered in

me. The history of my life is a very simple, uneventful one, but since

you show such kind interest in me I will gladly relate it to you. So

far from being brought down to the station I occupy by some grievous

catastrophe or romantic combination of adverse circumstances, I was

born to the profession of an actress—the chariot of Thespis was, so to

say, my birthplace. My mother, who was a very beautiful woman and

finished actress, played the part of tragic princess. She did not

confine her role to the theatre, but exacted as much deference and

respect from those around her when off the stage, as she received upon

it, until she came to consider herself a veritable princess. She had

all the majesty and grace of one, and was greatly admired and courted,

but never would suffer any of the gallants, who flutter about pretty

actresses like moths around a candle, to approach her—holding herself

entirely above them, and keeping her good name unsullied through

everything. An account of this unusual conduct on the part of a

beautiful young actress chanced to reach the ears of a certain rich and

powerful prince, who was very much struck and interested by it, and

immediately sought an introduction to my mother. As his actual rank and

position equalled hers of imaginary princess, she received his

attentions with evident pleasure. He was young, handsome, eloquent, and

very much in love with her—what wonder then that she yielded at last to

his impassioned entreaties, and gave herself to him, though, because of

his high station, he could not do as his heart dictated, and make her

his wife. They were very happy in each other’s love, and after I was

born my young father was devoted to me.”

“Ah!” interrupted de Sigognac, eagerly, “that explains it all; princely

blood does flow in your veins. I knew it—was sure of it!”

“Their happiness continued,” resumed Isabelle, “until reasons of state

made it necessary for him to tear himself away from her, to go on a

diplomatic mission to one of the great capitals of Europe; and ere his

return to France an illustrious marriage had been arranged for him by

his family, with the sanction of royalty, which he found it impossible

to evade. In these cruel circumstances he endeavoured to do everything

in his power to soften the pain of this rupture to my poor

mother—himself almost broken-hearted at being forced to leave her—and

made every possible arrangement for her comfort and well-being;

settling a generous income on her, and providing lavishly for my

maintenance and education. But she would accept nothing from him—she

could not receive his money without his love—‘all or nothing’ was her

motto; and taking me with her she fled from him, successfully

concealing her place of refuge. She soon after joined a band of players

travelling through the provinces, and resumed her old role; but her

heart was broken, and she gradually faded away, dying at last when I

was only about seven years old. Even then I used to appear upon the

stage in parts suitable to my age. I was a precocious little thing in

many ways. My mother’s death caused me a grief far more acute than most

children, even a good deal older than I was then, are capable of

feeling. How well I remember being punished because I refused to act

the part of one of Medea’s children, the day after she died. But my

grief was not very long-lived—I was but a child after all, and the

actors and actresses of the troupe were so good to me, always petting

me, and devising all sorts of ways to please and divert me—theatrical

people are proverbially kind to comrades in distress, you know. The

pedant, who belonged to our company, and looked just as old and

wrinkled then as he does now, took the greatest interest in me,

constituted himself my master, and taught me thoroughly and

indefatigably all the secrets of the histrionic art—taking unwearied

pains with me. I could not have had a better teacher; perhaps you do

not know that he has a great reputation, even in Paris. You will wonder

that a man of his fame and attainments should be found in a strolling

company of players like this, but his unfortunate habits of

intemperance have been the cause of all his troubles. He was professor

of elocution in one of the celebrated colleges, holding an enviable and

lucrative position, but lost it because of his inveterate

irregularities. He is his own worst enemy, poor Blazius! In the midst

of all the confusion and serious disadvantages of a vagabond life, I

have always been able to hold myself somewhat apart, and remain pure

and innocent. My companions, who have known me from babyhood, look upon

me as a sister or daughter, and treat me with invariable affection and

respect; and as for the men of the outside world who haunt the

_coulisses_, and seem to think that an actress is public property, off

the stage as well as upon it, I have thus far managed to keep them at a

distance—continuing in real life my role of modest, ingenuous, young

girl, without hypocrisy or false pretensions.”

Thus, as they strolled along together, and could talk confidentially

without fear of listeners, Isabelle related the story of her life to de

Sigognac, who was a most attentive and delighted listener, and ever

more and more charmed with his fair divinity.

“And the name of the prince,” said he, after a short pause, “do you

remember it?”

“I fear that it might be dangerous to my peace to disclose it,” she

replied; “but it is indelibly engraven upon my memory.”

“Are there any proofs remaining to you of his connection with your

mother?”

“I have in my possession a seal-ring bearing his coat of arms” Isabelle

answered; “it is the only jewel of all he had lavished upon her that my

mother kept, and that entirely on account of the associations connected

with it, not for its intrinsic value, which is small. If you would like

to see it I will be very glad to show it to you some day.”

It would be too tedious to follow our travellers step by step on their

long journey, so we will skip over a few days—which passed quietly,

without any incidents worth recording—and rejoin them as they were

drawing near to the ancient town of Poitiers. In the meantime their

receipts had not been large, and hard times had come to the wandering

comedians. The money received from the Marquis de Bruyères had all been

spent, as well as the modest sum in de Sigognac’s purse-who had

contributed all that he possessed to the common fund, in spite of the

protestations of his comrades in distress. The chariot was drawn now by

a single horse-instead of the four with which they had set off so

triumphantly from the Château de Bruyères—and such a horse! a

miserable, old, broken-down hack, whose ribs were so prominent that he

looked as if he lived upon barrel-hoops instead of oats and hay; his

lack-lustre eyes, drooping head, halting gait, and panting breath

combined to make him a most pitiable object, and he plodded on at a

snail’s pace, looking as if he might drop down dead on the road at any

moment. Only the three women were in the chariot—the men all walking,

so as to relieve their poor, jaded beast as much as possible. The

weather was bitterly cold, and they wrapped their cloaks about them and

strode on in silence, absorbed in their own melancholy thoughts.

Poor de Sigognac, well-nigh discouraged, asked himself despondingly

whether it would not have been better for him to have remained in the

dilapidated home of his fathers, even at the risk of starving to death

there in silence and seclusion, than run the risk of such hardships in

company with these Bohemians. His thoughts flew back to his good old

Pierre, to Bayard, Miraut, and Beelzebub, the faithful companions of

his solitude; his heart was heavy within him, and at the sudden

remembrance of his dear old friends and followers his throat contracted

spasmodically, and he almost sobbed aloud; but he looked back at

Isabelle, wrapped in her cloak and sitting serenely in the front of the

chariot, and took fresh courage, feeling glad that he could be near her

in this dark hour, to do all that mortal man, struggling against such

odds, could compass for her comfort and protection. She responded to

his appealing glance with a sweet smile, that quickened his pulses and

sent a thrill of joy through every nerve. She did not seem at all

disheartened or cast down by the greatness of their misery. Her heart

was satisfied and happy; why should she be crushed by mere physical

suffering and discomforts? She was very brave, although apparently so

delicate and fragile, and inspired de Sigognac, who could have fallen

down and worshipped her as he gazed up into her beautiful eyes, with

some of her own undaunted courage.

The great, barren plain they were slowly traversing, with a few dreary

skeletons of misshapen old trees scattered here and there, and not a

dwelling in sight, was not calculated to dissipate the melancholy of

the party. Save one or two aged peasants trudging listlessly along,

bending under the weight of the fagots they carried on their backs,

they had not seen a human being all day long. The spiteful magpies,

that seemed to be the only inhabitants of this dreary waste, danced

about in front of them, chattering and almost laughing at them, as if

rejoicing in and making fun of their miseries. A searching north wind,

that penetrated to the very marrow in their bones, was blowing, and the

few white flakes that flew before it now and then were the

_avant-couriers_ of the steady fall of snow that began as nightfall

approached.

“It would appear,” said the pedant, who was walking behind the chariot

trying to find shelter from the icy wind, “that the celestial housewife

up above has been plucking her geese, and is shaking the feathers out

of her apron down upon us. She might a great deal better send us the

geese themselves. I for one would be glad enough to eat 114 them,

without being very particular as to whether they were done to a turn,

and without sauce or seasoning either.”

“Yes, so would I, even without salt,” added the tyrant, “for my stomach

is empty. I could welcome now an omelette such as they gave us this

morning, and swallow it without winking, though the eggs were so far

gone that the little chicks were almost ready to peep.”

By this time de Sigognac also had taken refuge behind the

chariot—Isabelle having been driven from her seat in front to a place

in the interior by the increasing violence of the storm-and Blazius

said to him, “This is a trying time, my lord, and I regret very much

that you should have to share our bad fortune; but I trust it will be

only of brief duration, and although we do get on but slowly, still

every step brings us nearer to Paris.”

“I was not brought up in the lap of luxury,” de Sigognac answered, “and

I am not a man to be frightened by a few snowflakes and a biting wind;

but it is for these poor, suffering women that I am troubled; they are

exposed to such severe hardships—cold, privations, fatigue—and we

cannot adequately shelter and protect them, do what we will.”

“But you must remember that they are accustomed to roughing it, my dear

baron, and what would be simply unendurable to many of their sex, who

have never been subjected to such tests, they meet bravely, and make

light of, in a really remarkable manner.”

The storm grew worse and worse; the snow, driven with great force by

the wind, penetrated into the chariot where Isabelle, Serafina, and

Mme. Léonarde had taken refuge among the luggage, in spite of all that

could be done to keep it out, and had soon covered their wraps with a

coating of white. The poor horse was scarcely able to make any headway

at all against the wind and snow; his feet slipped at every step, and

he panted painfully. Hérode went to his head, and took hold of the

bridle with his strong hand to lead him and try to help him along,

while the pedant, de Sigognac, and Scapin put their shoulders to the

wheels at every inequality in the road and whenever he paused or

stumbled badly, and Leander cracked the whip loudly to encourage the

poor beast; it would have been downright cruelty to strike him. As to

Matamore, he had lingered behind, and they were expecting every moment

to see his tall, spare figure emerge from the gloom with rapid strides

and rejoin them. Finally the storm became so violent that it was

impossible to face it any longer; and though it was so important that

they should reach the next village before the daylight was all gone,

they were forced to halt, and turn the chariot, with its back to the

wind. The poor old horse, utterly exhausted by this last effort,

slipped and fell, and without making any attempt to rise lay panting on

the ground. Our unhappy travellers found themselves in a sad

predicament indeed—wet, cold, tired and hungry, all in the superlative

degree—blinded by the driving snow, and lost, without any means of

getting on save their own powers of locomotion, in the midst of a great

desert—for the white covering which now lay upon everything had

obliterated almost all traces of the road; they did not know which way

to turn, or what to do. For the moment they all took refuge in the

chariot, until the greatest violence of the tempest should be over,

huddled close together for warmth, and striving not to lose heart

entirely. Presently the wind quieted down all of a sudden, as if it had

expended its fury and wanted to rest; but the snow continued to fall

industriously, though noiselessly, and as far as the eye could reach

through the gathering darkness the surface of the earth was white, as

if it had been wrapped in a winding sheet.

“What in the world has become of Matamore?” cried Blazius suddenly;

“has the wind carried him off to the moon I wonder?”

“Yes; where can he be?” said the tyrant, in an anxious tone; “I can’t

see him anywhere—I thought he was among us; perhaps he is lying asleep

among the stage properties at the back of the chariot; I have known him

curl himself down there for a nap before now. Holloa! Matamore! where

are you? wake up and answer us!” But no Matamore responded, and there

was no movement under the great heap of scenery, and decorations of all

sorts, stowed away there.

“Holloa! Matamore!” roared Hérode again, in his loudest tones, which

might have waked the seven sleepers in their cavern, and roused their

dog too.

“We have not seen him here in the chariot at all today,” said one of

the actresses; “we thought he was walking with the others.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed Blazius, “this is very strange. I hope no

accident has happened to the poor fellow.”

“Undoubtedly he has taken shelter in the worst of the storm on the lee

side of the trunk of a tree somewhere,” said de Sigognac, “and will

soon come up with us.”

After a short discussion, it was decided to wait where they were a few

minutes longer, and then if he did not make his appearance go in search

of him. They anxiously watched the way by which they had come, but no

human form appeared on the great expanse of white, and the darkness was

falling rapidly upon the earth, as it does after the short days of

December. The distant howling of a dog now came to their ears, to add

to the lugubrious effect of their surroundings, but they were all so

troubled at the strange absence of their comrade that their own

individual miseries were for the moment forgotten. The doleful howling,

so far away at first, gradually became louder, until at last a large,

black dog came in sight, and sitting down upon the snow, still a long

distance from them, raised his head so that his muzzle pointed upward

to the sky and howled, as if in the greatest distress.

“I’m afraid something terrible has happened to our poor Matamore,”

cried the tyrant, and his voice trembled a little; “that dog howls as

if for a death.”

At this speech the two young women turned even paler than they had been

before, if that were possible, and made the sign of the cross devoutly,

while Isabelle murmured a prayer.

“We must go in search of him without a moment’s delay,” said Blazius,

“and take the lantern with us; it will as a guiding star to him if he

has wandered off from the road, as is very probable, with everything

covered with snow like this.”

They accordingly lighted their horn lantern, and set off with all

possible speed—the tyrant, Blazius, and de Sigognac—whilst Scapin and

Leander remained with the three women in the chariot. The dog,

meantime, kept up his dismal howling without a moment’s intermission as

the three men hastened towards him. The darkness and the newfallen

snow, which had completely obliterated all traces of footsteps, made

the task of looking for the missing actor a very difficult one, and

after walking nearly a mile without seeing a sign of him, they began to

fear that their search would prove fruitless. They kept calling,

“Matamore! Matamore!” but there was no reply, nothing to be heard but

the howling of the large black dog, at intervals now, or the scream of

an owl, disturbed by the light of the lantern. At last de Sigognac,

with his penetrating vision, thought he could make out a recumbent

figure at the foot of a tree, a little way off from the road, and they

all pressed forward to the spot he indicated.

It was indeed poor Matamore, sitting on the ground, with his back

against the tree, and his long legs, stretched out in front of him,

quite buried under the snow; he did not stir at the approach of his

comrades, or answer their joyful shout of recognition, and when

Blazius, alarmed at this strange apathy, hastened forward and threw the

light of the lantern upon his face, he had nearly let it fall from

fright at what it revealed. Poor Matamore was dead, stiff and stark,

with wide-open, sunken eyes staring out vaguely into the darkness, and

his ghastly face wearing that pinched, indescribable expression which

the mortal puts on when the spirit that dwelt within has fled. The

three who had found him thus were inexpressibly shocked, and stood for

a moment speechless and motionless, in the presence of death. The

tyrant was the first to recover himself, and hoping that some sign of

life might yet remain he stooped and took the cold hand into his, and

essayed to find a pulse at the wrist—in vain! it was still and icy.

Unwilling yet to admit that the vital spark was extinct, he asked

Blazius for his gourd, which he always carried with him, and

endeavoured to pour a few drops of wine into his mouth—in vain! the

teeth were tightly locked together, and the wine trickled from between

his pale lips, and dropped slowly down upon his breast.

“Leave him in peace! do not disturb these poor remains!” said de

Sigognac in trembling tones; “don’t you see that he is dead?” “Alas!

you are right,” Blazius added, “he is dead; dead as Cheops in the great

pyramid. Poor fellow! he must have been confused by the blinding snow,

and unable to make his way against that terrible wind, turned aside and

sat down under this tree, to wait until its violence should be spent;

but he had not flesh enough on his bones to keep them warm, and must

have been quickly frozen through and through. He has starved himself

more than ever lately, in hopes of producing a sensation at Paris, and

he was thinner than any greyhound before. Poor Matamore! thou art out

of the way of all trouble now; no more blows, and kicks, and curses for

thee, my friend, whether on or off the stage, and thou wilt be laughed

at no more forever.”

“What shall we do about his body?” interrupted the more practical

tyrant. “We cannot leave it here for dogs, and wolves, and birds of

prey to devour—though indeed I almost doubt whether they would touch

it, there is so little flesh upon his bones.”

“No, certainly, we cannot leave him here,” Blazius replied; “he was a

good and loyal comrade; he deserves better of us than that; we will not

abandon him, poor Matamore! He is not heavy; you take his head and I

will take his feet, and we will carry him to the chariot. To-morrow

morning we will bury him as decently as we can in some quiet, retired

spot, where he will not be likely to be disturbed. Unfortunately we

cannot do better for him than that, for we, poor actors, are excluded

by our hard-hearted and very unjust step-mother, the church, from her

cemeteries; she denies us the security and comfort of being laid to

rest for our last long sleep in consecrated ground. After having

devoted our lives to the amusement of the human race—the highest as

well as the more lowly among them, and faithful sons and daughters of

holy church too—we must be thrown into the next ditch when the end

comes, like dead dogs and horses. Now, Hérode, are you ready? and will

you, my lord, lead the way with the lantern?”

The mournful little procession moved slowly forward; the howling dog

was quiet at last, as if his duty was done, and a deathlike stillness

prevailed around them. It was well that there were no passers-by at

that hour; it would have been a strange sight, almost a frightful one,

for any such, for they might well have supposed that a hideous crime

had been committed; the two men bearing the dead body away at night,

lighted by the third with his lantern, which threw their shadows, long,

black and misshapen, upon the startling whiteness of the snow, as they

advanced with measured tread. Those who had remained with the chariot

saw from afar the glimmer of de Sigognac’s lantern, and wondered why

they walked so slowly, not perceiving at that distance their sad

burden. Scapin and Leander hastened forward to meet them, and as soon

as they got near enough to see them distinctly the former shouted to

them—“Well, what is the matter? why are you carrying Matamore like

that? is he ill, or has he hurt himself?”

“He is not ill,” answered Blazius, quietly, as they met, “and nothing

can ever hurt him again—he is cured forever of the strange malady we

call life, which always ends in death.”

“Is he really dead?” Scapin asked, with a sob he did not even try to

suppress, as he bent to look at the face of the poor comic actor, for

he had a tender heart under his rough exterior, and had cherished a

very sincere affection for poor Matamore.

“Very dead indeed, for he is frozen as well,” Blazius replied, in a

voice that belied the levity of his words.

“He has lived! as they always say at the end of a tragedy,” said

Hérode; “but relieve us, please, it is your turn now; we have carried

the poor fellow a long way, and it is well for us that he is no

heavier.”

Scapin took Hérode’s place, reverently and tenderly, while Leander

relieved the pedant—though this office was little to his taste—and they

resumed their march, soon reaching the chariot. In spite of the cold

and snow, Isabelle and Serafina sprang to the ground to meet them, but

the duenna did not leave her seat—with age had come apathy, and

selfishness had never been wanting. When they saw poor Matamore stiff

and motionless, and were told that he was dead, the two young women

were greatly shocked and moved, and Isabelle, bursting into tears,

raised her pure eyes to heaven and breathed a fervent prayer for the

departed soul.

And now came the question, what was to be done? The village for which

they were bound was still a league away; but they could not stay where

they were all night, and they decided to go on, even if they had to

abandon the chariot and walk—anything would be better than freezing to

death like poor Matamore. But after all, things were not at such a

desperate pass as they supposed; the long rest, and a good feed of oats

that Scapin had been thoughtful enough to give their tired horse, had

so revived the poor old beast that he seemed to be ready and willing to

go forward again—so their most serious difficulty was removed.

Matamore’s body was laid in the chariot, and carefully covered with a

large piece of white linen they fortunately happened to have among

their heterogeneous belongings, the women resumed their seats, not

without a slight shudder as they thought of their ghastly companion,

and the men walked—Scapin going in front with the lantern, and Hérode

leading the horse. They could not make very rapid progress, but at the

end of two hours perceived—oh, welcome sight!—the first straggling

houses of the village where they were to spend the night. At the noise

of the approaching vehicle the dogs began to bark furiously, and more

than one nightcapped head appeared at the windows as they passed along

through the deserted street—so the pedant was able to ask the way to

the inn, which proved to be at the other end of the hamlet—and the

worn-out old horse had to make one more effort; but he seemed to feel

that the stable, where he should find shelter, rest and food, was

before him, and pushed on with astonishing alacrity.

They found it at last—the inn—with its bunch of holly for a sign. It

looked a forlorn place, for travellers did not usually stop over night

in this small, unimportant village; but the comedians were not in a

mood to be fastidious, and would have been thankful for even a more

unpromising house of entertainment than this one. It was all shut up

for the night, with not a sign of life to be seen, so the tyrant

applied himself diligently to pounding on the door with his big fists,

until the sound of footsteps within, descending the stairs, showed that

he had succeeded in rousing somebody. A ray of light shone through the

cracks in the rickety old door, then it was cautiously opened just a

little, and an aged, withered crone, striving to protect the flame of

her flaring candle from the wind with one skinny hand, and to hold the

rags of her most extraordinary undress together with the other, peered

out at them curiously. She was evidently just as she had turned out of

her bed, and a more revolting, witch-like old hag it would be hard to

find; but she bade the belated travellers enter, with a horrible

grimace that was intended for a smile, throwing the door wide open, and

telling them they were welcome to her house as she led the way into the

kitchen. She kindled the smouldering embers on the hearth into a blaze,

threw on some fresh wood, and then withdrew to mount to her chamber and

make herself a little more presentable—having first roused a stout

peasant lad, who served as hostler, and sent him to take the chariot

into the court, where he was heard directly unharnessing the weary

horse and leading him into the stable.

“We cannot leave poor Matamore’s body in the chariot all night, like a

dead deer brought home from the chase,” said Blazius; “the dogs out

there in the court might find it out. Besides, he had been baptized,

and his remains ought to be watched with and cared for, like any other

good Christian’s.”

So they brought in the sad burden tenderly, laid it on the long table,

and covered it again carefully with the white linen cloth. When the old

woman returned, and saw this strange and terrible sight, she was

frightened almost to death, and, throwing herself on her knees, began

begging volubly for mercy—evidently taking the troupe of comedians for

a band of assassins, and the dead man for their unfortunate victim. It

was with the greatest difficulty that Isabelle finally succeeded in

calming and reassuring the poor, distracted, old creature, who was

beside herself with terror, and made her listen to the story of poor

Matamore’s death. When, at last, she fully understood the true state of

the case, she went and fetched more candles, which she lighted and

disposed symmetrically about the dead body, and kindly offered to sit

up and watch it with Mme. Léonarde—also to do all that was necessary

and usual for it—adding that she was always sent for in the village

when there was a death, to perform those last, sad offices. All this

being satisfactorily arranged—whereat they were greatly relieved—the

weary travellers were conducted into another room, and food was placed

before them; but the sad scenes just enacted had taken away their

appetites, though it was many long hours since they had eaten. And be

it here recorded that Blazius, for the first time in his life, forgot

to drink his wine, though it was excellent, and left his glass half

full. He could not have given a more convincing proof of the depth and

sincerity of his grief.

Isabelle and Serafina spent the night in an adjoining chamber, sharing

the one small bed it contained, and the men lay down upon bundles of

straw that the stable-boy brought in for them. None of them slept

much—being haunted by disturbing dreams inspired by the sad and trying

events of the previous day—and all were up and stirring at an early

hour, for poor Matamore’s burial was to be attended to. For want of

something more appropriate the aged hostess and Mme. Léonarde had

enveloped the body in an old piece of thick canvass—still bearing

traces of the foliage and garlands of flowers originally painted in

bright colours upon it—in which they had sewed it securely, so that it

looked not unlike an Egyptian mummy. A board resting on two cross

pieces of wood served as a bier, and, the body being placed upon it,

was carried by Hérode, Blazius, Scapin and Leander. A large, black

velvet cloak, adorned with spangles, which was used upon the stage by

sovereign pontiffs or venerable necromancers, did duty as a pall—not

inappropriately surely. The little cortege left the inn by a small door

in the rear that opened upon a deserted common, so as to avoid passing

through the street and rousing the curiosity of the villagers, and set

off towards a retired spot, indicated by the friendly old woman, where

no one would be likely to witness or interfere with their proceedings.

The early morning was gray and cold, the sky leaden—no one had ventured

abroad yet save a few peasants searching for dead wood and sticks, who

looked with suspicious eyes upon the strange little procession making

its way slowly through the untrodden snow, but did not attempt to

approach or molest it. They reached at last the lonely spot where they

were to leave the mortal remains of poor Matamore, and the stable-boy,

who had accompanied them carrying a spade, set to work to dig the

grave. Several carcasses of animals lay scattered about close at hand,

partly hidden by the snow—among them two or three skeletons of horses,

picked clean by birds of prey; their long heads, at the end of the

slender vertebral columns, peering out horribly at them, and their

ribs, like the sticks of an open fan stripped of its covering,

appearing above the smooth white surface, bearing each one its little

load of snow. The comedians observed these ghastly surroundings with a

shudder, as they laid their burden gently down upon the ground, and

gathered round the grave which the boy was industriously digging. He

made but slow progress, however, and the tyrant, taking the spade from

him, went to work with a will, and had soon finished the sad task. Just

at the last a volley of stones suddenly startled the little group, who,

intent upon the mournful business in hand, had not noticed the stealthy

approach of a considerable number of peasants.

These last had been hastily summoned by their friends who had first

perceived the mysterious little funeral procession, without priest,

crucifix, or lighted tapers, and taken it for granted that there must

be something uncanny about it.

They were about to follow up the shower of stones by a charge upon the

group assembled round the open grave, when de Sigognac, outraged at

this brutal assault, whipped out his sword, and rushed upon them

impetuously, striking some with the flat of the blade, and threatening

others with the point; while the tyrant, who had leaped out of the

grave at the first alarm, seized one of the cross pieces of the

improvised bier, and followed the baron into the thick of the crowd,

raining blows right and left among their cowardly assailants; who,

though they far outnumbered the little band of comedians, fled before

the vigorous attack of de Sigognac and Hérode, cursing and swearing,

and shouting out violent threats as they withdrew. Poor Matamore’s

humble obsequies were completed without further hindrance. When the

first spadeful of earth fell upon his body the pedant, with great tears

slowly rolling down his cheeks, bent reverently over the grave and

sighed out, “Alas! poor Matamore!” little thinking that he was, using

the very words of Hamlet, prince of Denmark, when he apostrophized the

skull of Yorick, an ancient king’s jester, in the famous tragedy of one

Shakespeare—a poet of great renown in England, and protégé of Queen

Elizabeth.

The grave was filled up in silence, and the tyrant—after having

trampled down the snow for some distance around it, so that its exact

whereabouts might not be easy to find in case the angry peasants should

come back to disturb it—said as they turned away, “Now let us get out

of this place as fast as we can; we have nothing more to do here, and

the sooner we quit it the better. Those brutes that attacked us may

return with reinforcements—indeed I think it more than likely that they

will—in which case your sword, my dear baron, and my stick might not be

enough to scatter them again. We don’t want to kill any of them, and

have the cries of widows and orphans resounding in our ears; and

besides, it might be awkward for us if we were obliged to do it in

self-defence, and then were hauled up before the local justice of peace

to answer for it.”

There was so much good sense in this advice that it was unanimously

agreed to follow it, and in less than an hour, after having settled

their account at the inn, they, were once more upon the road.

CHAPTER VII.

CAPTAIN FRACASSE

The comedians pushed forward at first as rapidly as the strength of

their horse—resuscitated by a night’s rest in a comfortable stable, and

a generous feed of oats—would allow; it being important to put a good

distance between themselves and the infuriated peasants who had been

repulsed by de Sigognac and the tyrant. They plodded on for more than

two leagues in profound silence, for poor Matamore’s sad fate weighed

heavily upon their hearts, and each one thought, with a shudder, that

the day might come when he too would die, and be buried secretly and in

haste, in some lonely and neglected spot by the roadside, wherever they

chanced to be, and there abandoned by his comrades.

At last Blazius, whose tongue was scarcely ever at rest, save when he

slept, could restrain it no longer, and began to expatiate upon the

mournful theme of which all were thinking, embellishing his discourse

with many apt quotations, apothegms and maxims, of which in his role of

pedant he had an ample store laid up in his memory. The tyrant listened

in silence, but with such a scowling, preoccupied air that Blazius

finally observed it, and broke off his eloquent disquisition abruptly

to inquire what he was cogitating so intently.

“I am thinking about Milo, the celebrated Crotonian,” he replied, “who

killed a bullock with one blow of his fist, and devoured it in a single

day. I always have admired that exploit particularly, and I feel as if

I could do as much myself to-day.”

“But as bad luck will have it,” said Scapin, putting in his oar, “the

bullock is wanting.”

“Yes,” rejoined the tyrant, “I, alas! have only the fist and the

stomach. Oh! thrice happy the ostrich, that, at a pinch, makes a meal

of pebbles, bits of broken glass, shoe-buttons, knife-handles,

belt-buckles, or any such-like delicacies that come in its way, which

the poor, weak, human stomach cannot digest at all. At this moment I

feel capable of swallowing whole that great mass of scenery and

decorations in the chariot yonder. I feel as if I had as big a chasm in

me as the grave I dug this morning for poor Matamore, and as if I never

could get enough to fill it. The ancients were wise old fellows; they

knew what they were about when they instituted the feasts that always

followed their funerals, with abundance of meats and all sorts of good

things to eat, washed down with copious draughts of wine, to the honour

of the dead and the great good of the living. Ah! if we only had the

wherewithal now to follow their illustrious example, and accomplish

worthily that philosophical rite, so admirably calculated to stay the

tears of mourners and raise their drooping spirits.”

“In other words,” said Blazius, “you are hankering after something to

eat. Polyphemus, ogre, Gargantua, monster that you are! you disgust

me.”

“And you,” retorted the tyrant, “I know that you are hankering after

something to drink. Silenus, hogshead, wine-bottle, sponge that you

are! you excite my pity.”

“How delightful it would be for us all if you both could have your

wish,” interposed Scapin, in a conciliatory tone.

“Look, yonder by the roadside is a little grove, capitally situated for

a halting-place. We might stop there for a little, ransack the chariot

to find whatever fragments may yet remain in it of our last stock of

provisions, and gathering them all up take our breakfast, such as it

may be, comfortably sheltered from this cold north wind on the lee side

of the thicket there. The short halt will give the poor old horse a

chance to rest, and we meantime, while we are breakfasting, can discuss

at our leisure some expedients for supplying our immediate needs, and

also talk over our future plans and prospects—which latter, it seems to

me, look devilishly dark and discouraging.”

“Your words are golden, friend Scapin,” the pedant said, “let us by all

means gather up the crumbs that are left of former plenty, though they

will be but few and musty, I fear. There are still, however, two or

three bottles of wine remaining—the last of a goodly store—enough for

us each to have a glass. What a pity that the soil hereabouts is not of

that peculiar kind of clay upon which certain tribes of American

savages are said to subsist, when they have been unlucky in their

hunting and fishing, and have nothing better to eat.”

They accordingly turned the chariot off from the road into the edge of

the thicket, unharnessed the horse, and left him free to forage for

himself; whereupon he began to nibble, with great apparent relish, at

the scattered spears of grass peeping up here and there through the

snow. A large rug was brought from the chariot and spread upon the

ground in a sheltered spot, upon which the comedians seated themselves,

in Turkish fashion, in a circle, while Blazius distributed among them

the sorry rations he had managed to scrape together; laughing and

jesting about them in such an amusing manner that all were fain to join

in his merriment, and general good humour prevailed. The Baron de

Sigognac, who had long, indeed always, been accustomed to extreme

frugality, in fact almost starvation, and found it easier to bear such

trials with equanimity than his companions, could not help admiring the

wonderful way in which the pedant made the best of a really desperate

situation, and found something to laugh at and make merry over where

most people would have grumbled and groaned, and bewailed their hard

lot, in a manner to make themselves, and all their companions in

misery, doubly unhappy. But his attention was quickly absorbed in his

anxiety about Isabelle, who was deathly pale, and shivering until her

teeth chattered, though she did her utmost to conceal her suffering

condition, and to laugh with the rest. Her wraps were sadly

insufficient to protect her properly from such extreme cold as they

were exposed to then, and de Sigognac, who was sitting beside her,

insisted upon sharing his cloak with her—though she protested against

his depriving himself of so much of it—and beneath its friendly shelter

gently drew her slender, shrinking form close to himself, so as to

impart some of his own vital warmth to her. She could feel the

quickened beating of his heart as he held her respectfully, yet firmly

and tenderly, embraced, and he was soon rewarded for his loving care by

seeing the colour return to her pale lips, the happy light to her sweet

eyes, and even a faint flush appear on her delicate cheeks.

While they were eating—or rather making believe to eat their

make-believe breakfast—a singular noise was heard near by, to which at

first they paid no particular attention, thinking it was the wind

whistling through the matted branches of the thicket, if they thought

of it at all; but presently it grew louder, and they could not imagine

what it proceeded from. It was a sort of hissing sound, at once shrill

and hoarse, quite impossible to describe accurately.

As it grew louder and louder, and seemed to be approaching them, the

women manifested some alarm.

“Oh!” shrieked Serafina “I hope it’s not a snake; I shall die if it is;

I am so terrified by the horrid, crawling creatures.”

“But it can’t possibly be a snake,” said Leander, reassuringly; “in

such cold weather as this the snakes are all torpid and lying in their

holes underground, stiffer than so many sticks.”

“Leander is right,” added the pedant, “this cannot be a snake; and

besides, snakes never make such a sound as that at any time. It must

proceed from some wild creature of the wood that our invasion has

disturbed; perhaps we may be lucky enough to capture it and find it

edible; that would be a piece of good fortune, indeed, quite like a

fairy-tale.”

Meantime Scapin was listening attentively to the strange,

incomprehensible sound, and watching keenly that part of the thicket

from which it seemed to come. Presently a movement of the underbrush

became noticeable, and just as he motioned to the company to keep

perfectly quiet a magnificent big gander emerged from the bushes,

stretching out his long neck, hissing with all his might, and waddling

along with a sort of stupid majesty that was most diverting—closely

followed by two geese, his good, simple-minded, confiding wives, in

humble attendance upon their infuriated lord and master.

“Don’t stir, any of you,” said Scapin, under his breath, and I will

endeavour to capture this splendid prize”—with which the clever scamp

crept softly round behind his companions, who were still seated in a

circle on the rug, so lightly that he made not the slightest sound; and

while the gander—who with his two followers had stopped short at sight

of the intruders—was intently examining them, with some curiosity

mingled with his angry defiance, and apparently wondering in his stupid

way how these mysterious figures came to be in that usually deserted

spot, Scapin succeeded, by making a wide detour, in getting behind the

three geese unseen, and noiselessly advancing upon them, with one

rapid, dexterous movement, threw his large heavy cloak over the coveted

prize. In another instant he had the struggling gander, still enveloped

in the cloak, in his arms, and, by compressing his neck tightly,

quickly put an end to his resistance—and his existence at the same

time; while his two wives, or rather widows, rushed back into the thick

underbrush to avoid a like fate, making a great cackling and ado over

the terrible catastrophe that had befallen their quondam lord and

master.

“Bravo, Scapin! that was a clever trick indeed,” cried Hérode; “it

throws those you are so often applauded for on the stage quite into the

shade—a masterpiece of strategy, friend Scapin!—for, as is well known,

geese are by nature very vigilant, and never caught off their guard—of

which history gives us a notable instance, in the watchfulness of the

sacred geese of the Capitol, whose loud cackling in the dead of night

at the stealthy approach of the Gauls woke the sleeping soldiers to a

sense of their danger just in time to save Rome. This splendid big

fellow here saves us—after another fashion it is true, but one which is

no less providential.”

The goose was plucked and prepared for the spit by Mme. Léonarde, while

Blazius, the tyrant, and Leander busied themselves in gathering

together a goodly quantity of dead wood and twigs, and laying them

ready to light in a tolerably dry spot. Scapin, with his large

clasp-knife, cut a straight, strong stick, stripped off the bark for a

spit, and found two stout forked branches, which he stuck firmly into

the ground on each side of the fire so that they would meet over it. A

handful of dry straw from the chariot served as kindling, and they

quickly had a bright blaze, over which the goose was suspended, and

being duly turned and tended by Scapin, in a surprisingly short space

of time began to assume a beautiful light brown hue, and send out such

a savoury delicious odour that the tyrant sprang up and strode away

from its immediate vicinity, declaring that if he remained near it the

temptation to seize and swallow it, spit and all, would surely be too

strong for him. Blazius had fetched from the chariot a huge tin platter

that usually figured in theatrical feasts, upon which the goose, done

to a turn, was finally placed with all due ceremony, and a second

breakfast was partaken of, which was by no means a fallacious,

chimerical repast like the first. The pedant, who was an accomplished

carver, officiated in that capacity on this auspicious occasion;

begging the company, as he did so, to be kind enough to excuse the

unavoidable absence, which he deeply regretted, of the slices of

Seville oranges that should have formed a part of the dish—being an

obligatory accessory of roast goose—and they with charming courtesy

smilingly expressed their willingness to overlook for this once such a

culinary solecism.

“Now,” said Hérode, when nothing remained of the goose but its

well-picked bones, “we must try to decide upon what is best to be done.

Only three or four _pistoles_ are left in the exchequer, and my office

as treasurer bids fair to become a sinecure. We have been so

unfortunate as to lose two valuable members of the troupe, Zerbine and

poor Matamore, rendering many of our best plays impossible for us, and

at any rate we cannot give dramatic representations that would bring in

much money here in the fields, where our audience would be mainly

composed of crows, jackdaws, and magpies—who could scarcely be expected

to pay us very liberally for our entertainment. With that poor,

miserable, old horse there, slowly dying between the shafts of our

chariot, hardly able to drag one foot after another, we cannot

reasonably expect to reach Poitiers in less than two days—if we do

then—and our situation is an unpleasantly tragic one, for we run the

risk of being frozen or starved to death by the wayside; fat geese,

already roasted, do not emerge from every thicket you know.”

“You state the case very clearly,” the pedant said as he paused, “and

make the evil very apparent, but you don’t say a word about the

remedy.”

“My idea is,” rejoined Hérode, “to stop at the first village we come to

and give an entertainment. All work in the fields is at a standstill

now, and the peasants are idle in consequence; they will be only too

delighted at the prospect of a little amusement. Somebody will let us

have his barn for our theatre, and Scapin shall go round the town

beating the drum, and announcing our programme, adding this important

clause, that all those who cannot pay for their places in money may do

so in provisions. A fowl, a ham, or a jug of wine, will secure a seat

in the first row; a pair of pigeons, a dozen eggs, or a loaf of bread,

in the second, and so on down. Peasants are proverbially stingy with

their money, but will be liberal enough with their provisions; and

though our purse will not be replenished, our larder will, which is

equally important, since our very lives depend upon it. After that we

can push on to Poitiers, and I know an inn-keeper there who will give

us credit until we have had time to fill our purse again, and get our

finances in good order.”

“But what piece can we play, in case we find our village?” asked

Scapin. “Our _repertoire_ is sadly reduced, you know. Tragedies, and

even the better class of comedies, would be all Greek to the stupid

rustics, utterly ignorant as they are of history or fable, and scarcely

even understanding the French language. The only thing to give them

would be a roaring farce, with plenty of funny by-play, resounding

blows, kicks and cuffs, ridiculous tumbles, and absurdities within

their limited comprehension. The Rodomontades of Captain Matamore would

be the very thing; but that is out of our power now that poor Matamore

is dead.”

When Scapin paused, de Sigognac made a sign with his hand that he

wished to speak, and all the company turned respectfully towards him to

listen to what he had to say. A little flush spread itself over his

pale countenance, and it was only after a brief but sharp struggle with

himself that he opened his tightly compressed lips, and addressed his

expectant audience, as follows: “Although I do not possess poor

Matamore’s talent, I can almost rival him in thinness, and _I_ will

take his role, and do the best I can with it. I am your comrade, and I

want to do my part in this strait we find ourselves in. I should be

ashamed to share your prosperity, as I have done, and not aid you, so

far as lies in my power, in your adversity, and this is the only way in

which I can assist you. There is no one in the whole world to care what

may become of the de Sigognacs; my house is crumbling into dust over

the tombs of my ancestors; oblivion covers my once glorious name, and

the arms of my family are almost entirely obliterated above the

deserted entrance to the Château de Sigognac. Perhaps I may yet see the

three golden storks shine out brilliantly upon my shield, and life,

prosperity, and happiness return to the desolate abode where my sad,

hopeless youth was spent. But in the meantime, since to you I owe my

escape from that dreary seclusion, I beg you to accept me freely as

your comrade, and my poor services as such; to you I am no longer de

Sigognac.”

Isabelle had laid her hand on his arm at his first sentence, as soon as

she comprehended what he meant to say, to try to stop him, and here she

made another effort to interrupt; but for once he would not heed her,

and continued, “I renounce my title of baron for the present; I fold it

up and put it away at the bottom of my portmanteau, like a garment that

is laid aside. Do not make use of it again, I pray you; we will see

whether under a new name I may not succeed in escaping from the ill

fortune that has thus far pursued me as the Baron de Sigognac.

Henceforth then I take poor Matamore’s place, and my name is Captain

Fracasse.”

“Bravo! _vive_ Captain Fracasse!” cried they all, with enthusiasm, “may

applause greet and follow him wherever he goes.”

This sudden move on de Sigognac’s part, at which the comedians were

greatly astonished, as well as deeply touched, was not so

unpremeditated as it seemed; he had been thinking about it for some

time. He blushed at the idea of being a mere parasite, living upon the

bounty of these honest players—who shared all they had with him so

generously, and without ever making him feel, for a moment, that he was

under any obligation to them, but—rather that he was conferring an

honour upon them—he deemed it less unworthy a gentleman to appear upon

the stage and do his part towards filling the common purse than to be

their pensioner in idleness; and after all, there was no disgrace in

becoming an actor. The idea of quitting them and going back to Sigognac

had indeed presented itself to his mind, but he had instantly repulsed

it as base and cowardly—it is not in the hour of danger and disaster

that the true soldier retires from the ranks. Besides, if he had wished

to go ever so much, his love for Isabelle would have kept him near her;

and then, though he was not given to day-dreams, he yet fancied that

wonderful adventures, sudden changes, and strokes of good fortune might

possibly be awaiting him in the mysterious future, into which he fain

would peer, and he would inevitably lose the chance of them all if he

returned to his ruinous château.

Everything being thus satisfactorily arranged, the old horse was

harnessed up again, and the chariot moved slowly forward on its way.

Their good meal had revived everybody’s drooping spirits, and they all,

excepting the duenna and Serafina, who never walked if they could

possibly help it, trudged cheerily along, laughing and talking as they

went.

Isabelle had taken de Sigognac’s offered arm, and leaned on it proudly,

glancing furtively up into his face, whenever he was looking away from

her, with eyes full of tenderness and loving admiration, never

suspecting, in her modesty, that it was for love of her that he had

decided to turn actor—a thing so revolting, as she knew, to his pride

as a gentleman. He was a hero in her eyes, and though she wished to

reproach him for his hasty action, which she would have prevented if

she could, she had not the heart to find fault with him for his noble

devotion to the common cause after all. Yet she would have done

anything, suffered everything herself, to have saved him this

humiliation; hers being one of those true, loyal hearts that forget

themselves in their love, and think only of the interests and happiness

of the being beloved. She walked on beside him until her strength was

exhausted, and then returned to her place in the chariot, giving him a

look so eloquent of love and admiration, as he carefully drew her wraps

about her, that his heart bounded with joy, and he felt that no

sacrifice could be too great which was made for her sweet sake.

In every direction around them, as far as the eye could reach, the

snow-covered country was utterly devoid of town, village, or hamlet;

not a sign of life was anywhere to be seen.

“A sorry prospect for our fine plan,” said the pedant, after a

searching examination of their surroundings, “and I very much fear that

the plentiful store of provisions Hérode promised us will not be

forthcoming. I cannot see the smoke of a single chimney, strain my eyes

as I will, nor the weather-cock on any village spire.”

“Have a little patience, Blazius!” the tyrant replied. “Where people

live too much crowded together the air becomes vitiated, you know, and

it is very salubrious to have the villages situated a good distance

apart.”

“What a healthy part of the country this must be then the inhabitants

need not to fear epidemics—for to begin with there are no inhabitants.

At this rate our Captain Fracasse will not have a chance very soon to

make his debut.”

By this time it was nearly dark, the sky was overcast with heavy leaden

clouds, and only a faint lurid glow on the horizon in the west showed

where the sun had gone down. An icy wind, blowing full in their faces,

and the hard, frozen surface of the snow, made their progress both

difficult and painful. The poor old horse slipped at every step, though

Scapin was carefully leading him, and staggered along like a drunken

man, striking first against one shaft and then against the other,

growing perceptibly weaker at every turn of the wheels behind him. Now

and again he shook his head slowly up and down, and cast appealing

glances at those around him, as his trembling legs seemed about to give

way under him. His hour had come—the poor, old horse! and he was dying

in harness like a brave beast, as he was. At last he could no more, and

falling heavily to the ground gave one feeble kick as he stretched

himself out on his side, and yielded up the ghost. Frightened by the

sudden shock, the women shrieked loudly, and the men, running to their

assistance, helped them to clamber out of the chariot. Mme. Léonarde

and Serafina were none the worse for the fright, but Isabelle had

fainted quite away, and de Sigognac, lifting her light weight easily,

carried her in his arms to the bank at the side of the road, followed

by the duenna, while Scapin bent down over the prostrate horse and

carefully examined his ears.

“He is stone dead,” said he in despairing tones; “his ears are cold,

and there is no pulsation in the auricular artery.”

“Then I suppose we shall have to harness ourselves to the chariot in

his place,” broke in Leander dolefully, almost weeping. “Oh! cursed be

the mad folly that led me to choose an actor’s career.”

“Is this a time to groan and bewail yourself?” roared the tyrant

savagely, entirely out of patience with Leander’s everlasting

jeremiads; “for heaven’s sake pluck up a little courage, and be a man!

And now to consider what is to be done; but first let us see how our

good little Isabelle is getting on; is she still unconscious? No; she

opens her eyes, and there is the colour coming back to her lips; she

will do now, thanks to the baron and Mme. Léonarde. We must divide

ourselves into two bands; one will stay with the women and the chariot,

the other will scour the country in search of aid. We cannot think of

remaining here all night, for we should be frozen stiff long before

morning. Come, Captain Fracasse, Leander, and Scapin, you three being

the youngest, and also the fleetest of foot, off with you. Run like

greyhounds, and bring us succour as speedily as may be. Blazius and I

will meantime do duty as guardians of the chariot and its contents.”

The three men designated signified their readiness to obey the tyrant,

and set off across country, though not feeling at all sanguine as to

the results of their search, for the night was intensely dark; but that

very darkness had its advantages, and came to their aid in an

unexpected manner, for though it effectually concealed all surrounding

objects, it made visible a tiny point of light shining at the foot of a

little hill some distance from the road.

“Behold,” cried the pedant, “our guiding star! as welcome to us weary

travellers, lost in the desert, as the polar star to the distressed

mariner ‘in periculo maris.’ That blessed star yonder, whose rays shine

far out into the darkness, is a light burning in some warm, comfortable

room, which forms—Heaven be praised!—part of the habitation of human

and civilized beings—not Laestrygon savages. Without doubt there is a

bright fire blazing on the hearth in that cosy room, and over it hangs

a famous big pot, from which issue puffs of a delicious odour—oh,

delightful thought!—round which my imagination holds high revel, and in

fancy I wash down with generous wine the savoury morsels from that

glorious _pot-au-feu_.”

“You rave, my good Blazius,” said the tyrant, “the frost must have

gotten into your brain—that makes men mad, they say, or silly. Yet

there is some method in your madness, some truth in your ravings, for

yonder light must indicate an inhabited dwelling. This renders a change

in the plans for our campaign advisable. We will all go forward

together towards the promised refuge, and leave the chariot where it

is; no robbers will be abroad on such a night as this to interfere with

its contents. We will take our few valuables—they are not so numerous

or weighty but that we can carry them with us; for once it is an

advantage that our possessions are few. To-morrow morning we will come

back to fetch the chariot: now, forward, march!—and it is time, for I

am nearly frozen to death.”

The comedians accordingly started across the fields, towards the

friendly light that promised them so much—Isabelle supported by de

Sigognac, Serafina by Leander, and the duenna dragged along by Scapin;

while Blazius and the tyrant formed the advance guard. It was not easy

work; sometimes plunging into deep snow, more than knee high, as they

came upon a ditch, hidden completely under the treacherously smooth

white surface, or stumbling, and even falling more than once, over some

unseen obstacle; but at length they came up to what seemed to be a

large, low building, probably a farm-house, surrounded by stone walls,

with a big gate for carts to enter. In the expanse of dark wall before

them shone the light which had guided their steps, and upon approaching

they found that it proceeded from a small window, whose shutters—most

fortunately for them, poor, lost wanderers—had not yet been closed. The

dogs within the enclosure, perceiving the approach of strangers, began

to bark loudly and rush about the yard; they could hear them jumping up

at the walls in vain efforts to get at the intruders. Presently the

sound of a man’s voice and footsteps mingled with their barking, and in

a moment the whole establishment seemed to be on the alert.

“Stay here, all of you,” said the pedant, halting at a little distance

from the gate, “and let me go forward alone to knock for admission. Our

numbers might alarm the good people of the farm, and lead them to fancy

us a band of robbers, with designs upon their rustic Penates; as I am

old, and inoffensive looking, they will not be afraid of me.”

This advice was approved by all, and Blazius, going forward by himself,

knocked gently at the great gate, which was first opened cautiously

just a very little, then flung impetuously back; and then the

comedians, from their outpost in the snow, saw a most extraordinary and

inexplicable scene enacted before their astonished eyes. The pedant and

the farmer who had opened the gate, after gazing at each other a moment

intently, by the light of the lantern which the latter held up to see

what manner of man his nocturnal visitor might be, and after exchanging

rapidly a few words, that the others could not hear, accompanied by

wild gesticulations, rushed into each other’s arms, and began pounding

each other heartily upon the back—mutually bestowing resounding

accolades—as is the manner upon the stage of expressing joy at meeting

a dear friend. Emboldened by this cordial reception, which yet was a

mystery to them, the rest of the troupe ventured to approach, though

slowly and timidly.

“Halloa! all of you there,” cried the pedant suddenly, in a joyful

voice, “come on without fear, you will be made welcome by a friend and

a brother, a world-famed member of our profession, the darling of

Thespis, the favourite of Thalia, no less a personage than the

celebrated Bellombre—you all know his glorious record. Blessed is the

happy chance that has directed our steps hither, to the philosophic

retreat where this histrionic hero reposes tranquilly upon his

laurels.”

“Come in, I pray you, ladies and gentlemen,” said Bellombre, advancing

to meet them, with a graceful courtesy which proved that the ci-devant

actor had not put aside his elegant, courtly manners when he donned his

peasant dress.

“Come in quickly out of this biting wind; my dwelling is rude and

homely, but you will be better off within it than here in the open

air.”

They needed no urging, and joyfully accepting his kind invitation

followed their host into the house, charmed with this unhoped-for good

fortune. Blazius and Bellombre were old acquaintances, and had formerly

been members Of the same troupe; as their respective roles did not

clash there was no rivalry between them, and they had become fast

friends—being fellow worshippers at the shrine of the merry god of

wine. Bellombre had retired from the stage some years before, when at

his father’s death he inherited this farm and a small fortune. The

parts that he excelled in required a certain degree of youth, and he

was not sorry to withdraw before wrinkles and whitening locks should

make it necessary for him to abandon his favourite roles. In the world

he was believed to be dead, but his splendid acting was often quoted by

his former admirers—who were wont to declare that there had been

nothing to equal it seen on the stage since he had made his last bow to

the public.

The room into which he led his guests was very spacious, and served

both as kitchen and sitting-room—there was also a large curtained bed

standing in an alcove at the end farthest from the fire, as was not

unusual in ancient farm-houses. The blaze from the four or five immense

logs of wood heaped up on the huge andirons was roaring up the broad

chimney flue, and filling the room with a bright, ruddy glow—a most

welcome sight to the poor half-frozen travellers, who gathered around

it and luxuriated in its genial warmth. The large apartment was plainly

and substantially furnished, just as any well-to-do farmer’s house

might be, but near one of the windows stood a round table heaped up

with books, some of them lying open as if but just put down, which

showed that the owner of the establishment had not lost his taste for

literary pursuits, but devoted to them his long winter evenings.

The cordiality of their welcome and the deliciously warm atmosphere in

which they found themselves had combined to raise the spirits of the

comedians—colour returned to pale faces, light to heavy eyes, and

smiles to anxious lips—their gaiety was in proportion to the misery and

peril from which they had just happily escaped, their hardships were

all forgotten, and they gave themselves up entirely to the enjoyment of

the hour. Their host had called up his servants, who bustled about,

setting the table and making other preparations for supper, to the

undisguised delight of Blazius, who said triumphantly to the tyrant,

“You see now, Hérode, and must acknowledge, that my predictions,

inspired by the little glimmer of light we saw from afar, are

completely verified—they have all come literally true. Fragrant puffs

are issuing even now from the mammoth _pot-au-feu_ there over the fire,

and we shall presently wash down its savoury contents with draughts of

generous wine, which I see already awaiting us on the table yonder. It

is warm and bright and cosy in this room, and we appreciate and enjoy

it all doubly, after the darkness and the cold and the danger from

which we have escaped into the grateful shelter of this hospitable

roof; and to crown the whole, our host is the grand, illustrious,

incomparable Bellombre—flower and cream of all comedians, past, present

and future, and best of good fellows.”

“Our happiness would be complete if only poor Matamore were here,” said

Isabelle with a sigh.

“Pray what has happened to him?” asked Bellombre, who knew him by

reputation.

The tyrant told him the tragic story of the snow-storm, and its fatal

consequences. “But for this thrice-blessed meeting with my old and

faithful friend here,” Blazius added, “the same fate would probably

have overtaken us ere morning—we should all have been found, frozen

stiff and stark, by the next party of travellers on the post road.”

“That would have been a pity indeed,” Bellombre rejoined, and glancing

admiringly at Isabelle and Serafina, added gallantly, “but surely these

young goddesses would have melted the snow, and thawed the ice, with

the fire I see shining in their sparkling eyes.”

“You attribute too much power to our eyes,” Serafina made answer; “they

could not even have made any impression upon a heart, in the thick,

impenetrable darkness that enveloped us; the tears that the icy cold

forced from them would have extinguished the flames of the most ardent

love.”

While they sat at supper, Blazius told their host of the sad condition

of their affairs, at which he seemed no way surprised.

“There are always plenty of ups and downs in a theatrical career,” he

said—“the wheel of Fortune turns very fast in that profession; but if

misfortunes come suddenly, so also does prosperity follow quickly in

their train. Don’t be discouraged!—things are brightening with you now.

Tomorrow morning I will send one of my stout farm-horses to bring your

chariot on here, and we will rig up a theatre in my big barn; there is

a large town not far from this which will send us plenty of spectators.

If the entertainment does not fetch as good a sum as I think it will, I

have a little fund of _pistoles_ lying idle here that will be entirely

at your service, for, by Apollo! I would not leave my good Blazius and

his friends in distress so long as I had a copper in my purse.”

“I see that you are always the same warm-hearted, openhanded Bellombre

as of old,” cried the pedant, grasping the other’s outstretched hand

warmly; “you have not grown rusty and hard in consequence of your

bucolic occupations.”

“No,” Bellombre replied, with a smile; “I do not let my brain lie

fallow while I cultivate my fields. I make a point of reading over

frequently the good old authors, seated comfortably by the fire with my

feet on the fender, and I read also such new works as I am able to

procure, from time to time, here in the depths of the country. I often

go carefully over my own old parts, and I see plainly what a

self-satisfied fool I was in the old days, when I was applauded to the

echo every time I appeared upon the stage, simply because I happened to

be blessed with a sonorous voice, a graceful carriage, and a fine leg;

the doting stupidity of the public, with which I chanced to be a

favourite, was the true cause of my success.”

“Only the great Bellombre himself would ever be suffered to say such

things as these of that most illustrious ornament of our profession,”

said the tyrant, courteously.

“Art is long, but life is short,” continued the ci-devant actor, “and I

should have arrived at a certain degree of proficiency at last perhaps,

but—I was beginning to grow stout; and I would not allow myself to

cling to the stage until two footmen should have to come and help me up

from my rheumatic old knees every time I had a declaration of love to

make, so I gladly seized the opportunity afforded me by my little

inheritance, and retired in the height of my glory.”

“And you were wise, Bellombre,” said Blazius, “though your retreat was

premature; you might have given ten years more to the theatre, and then

have retired full early.”

In effect he was still a very handsome, vigorous man, about whom no

signs of age were apparent, save an occasional thread of silver amid

the rich masses of dark hair that fell upon his shoulders.

The younger men, as well as the three actresses, were glad to retire to

rest early; but Blazius and the tyrant, with their host, sat up

drinking the latter’s capital wine until far into the night. At length

they, too, succumbed to their fatigue; and while they are sleeping we

will return to the abandoned chariot to see what was going on there. In

the gray light of the early morning it could be perceived that the poor

old horse still lay just as he had fallen; several crows were flitting

about, not yet venturing to attack the miserable carcass, peering at it

suspiciously from a respectful distance, as if they feared some hidden

snare. At last one, bolder than its fellows, alighted upon the poor

beast’s head, and was just bending over that coveted dainty, the

eye—which was open and staring—when a heavy step, coming over the snow,

startled him. With a croak of disappointment he quitted his post of

vantage, rose heavily in the air, and flapped slowly off to a

neighbouring tree, followed by his companions, cawing and scolding

hoarsely. The figure of a man appeared, coming along the road at a

brisk pace, and carrying a large bundle in his arms, enveloped in his

cloak. This he put down upon the ground when he came up with the

chariot, standing directly in his way, and it proved to be a little

girl about twelve years old; a child with large, dark, liquid eyes that

had a feverish light in them—eyes exactly like Chiquita’s. There was a

string of pearl beads round the slender neck, and an extraordinary

combination of rags and tatters, held together in some mysterious way,

hung about the thin, fragile little figure. It was indeed Chiquita

herself, and with her, Agostino—the ingenious rascal, whose laughable

exploit with his scarecrow brigands has been already recorded—who,

tired of following a profession that yielded no profits, had set out on

foot for Paris—where all men of talent could find employment they

said—marching by night, and lying hidden by day, like all other beasts

of prey. The poor child, overcome with fatigue and benumbed by the

cold, had given out entirely that night, in spite of her valiant

efforts to keep up with Agostino, and he had at last picked her up in

his arms and carried her for a while—she was but a light burden—hoping

to find some sort of shelter soon.

“What can be the meaning of this?” he said to Chiquita. “Usually we

stop the vehicles, but here we are stopped by one in our turn; we must

look out lest it be full of travellers, ready to demand our money or

our lives.”

“There’s nobody in it,” Chiquita replied, having peeped in under the

cover.

“Perhaps there may be something worth having inside there,” Agostino

said; “we will look and see,” and he proceeded to light the little dark

lantern he always had with him, for the daylight was not yet strong

enough to penetrate into the dusky interior of the chariot. Chiquita,

who was greatly excited by the hope of booty, jumped in, and rapidly

searched it, carefully directing the light of the lantern upon the

packages and confused mass of theatrical articles stowed away in the

back part of it, but finding nothing of value anywhere.

“Search thoroughly, my good little Chiquita!” said the brigand, as he

kept watch outside, “be sure that you don’t overlook anything.”

“There is nothing here, absolutely nothing that is worth the trouble of

carrying away. Oh, yes! here is a bag, with something that sounds like

money in ft.”

“Give it to me,” cried Agostino eagerly, snatching it from her, and

making a rapid examination of its contents; but he threw it down

angrily upon the ground, exclaiming, “the devil take it! I thought we

had found a treasure at last, but instead of good money there’s nothing

but a lot of pieces of gilded lead and such-like in it. But we’ll get

one thing out of this anyhow—a good rest inside here for you, sheltered

from the wind and cold. Your poor little feet are bleeding, and they

must be nearly frozen. Curl yourself down there on those cushions, and

I will cover you with this bit of painted canvas. Now go to sleep, and

I will watch while you have a nap; it is too early yet for honest folks

to be abroad, and we shall not be disturbed.” In a few minutes poor

little Chiquita was sound asleep.

Agostino sat on the front seat of the chariot, with his _navaja_ open

and lying beside him, watching the road and the fields all about, with

the keen, practised eye of a man of his lawless profession. All was

still. No sound or movement any where, save among the crows. In spite

of his iron will and constitution he began to feel an insidious

drowsiness creeping over him, which he did not find it easy to shake

off; several times his eyelids closed, and he lifted them resolutely,

only to have them fall again in another instant. In fact he was just

dropping into a doze, when he felt, as in a dream, a hot breath on his

face, and suddenly waked to see two gleaming eyeballs close to his.

With a movement more rapid than thought itself, he seized the wolf by

the throat with his left hand, and picking up his _navaja_ with the

other, plunged it up to the hilt into the animal’s breast. It must have

gone through the heart, for he dropped down dead in the road, without a

struggle.

Although he had gained the victory so easily over his fierce assailant,

Agostino concluded that this was not a good place for them to tarry in,

and called to Chiquita, who jumped up instantly, wide awake, and

manifested no alarm at sight of the dead wolf lying beside the chariot.

“We had better move on,” said he, “that carcass of the horse there

draws the wolves; they are often mad with hunger in the winter time you

know, and especially when there is snow on the ground. I could easily

kill a pretty good number of them, but they might come down upon us by

scores, and if I should happen to fall asleep again it would not be

pleasant to wake up and find myself in the stomach of one of those

confounded brutes. When I was disposed of they would make only a

mouthful of you, little one! So come along, we must scamper off as fast

as ever we can. That fellow there was only the advance guard, the

others will not be far behind him—this carcass will keep them busy for

a while, and give us time to get the start of them. You can walk now,

Chiquita, can’t you?”

“Yes, indeed,” she replied cheerily, “that little nap has done me so

much good. Poor Agostino! you shall not have to carry me again, like a

great clumsy parcel. And Agostino,” she added with a fierce energy,

“when my feet refuse to walk or run in your service you must just cut

my throat with your big knife there, and throw me into the next ditch.

I will thank you for it, Agostino, for I could not bear to have your

precious life in danger for the sake of poor, miserable little me.”

Thereupon this strange pair, both very fleet of foot, set off running,

side by side, the brigand holding Chiquita by the hand, so as to give

her all the aid and support he could, and they quickly passed out of

sight. No sooner had they departed than the crows came swooping down

from their perch in the nearest tree, and fell to fiercely upon their

horrible feast, in which they were almost directly joined by several

ravenous wolves—and they made such good use of their time, that in a

few hours nothing remained of the poor old horse but his bones, his

tail, and his shoes. When somewhat later the tyrant arrived,

accompanied by one of Bellombre’s farm-hands, leading the horse that

was to take the chariot back with them, he was naturally astonished to

find only the skeleton, with the harness and trappings, still intact,

about it, for neither birds nor beasts had interfered with them, and

his surprise was increased when he discovered the half-devoured carcass

of the wolf lying under the chariot wheels. There also, scattered on

the road, were the sham _louis-d’or_ that did duty upon the stage when

largesses were to be distributed; and upon the snow were the traces,

clearly defined, of the footsteps of a man, approaching the chariot

from the way it had come, and of those of the same man, and also of a

child, going on beyond it.

“It would appear,” said Hérode to himself, “that the chariot of Thespis

has received visitors, since we abandoned it, of more than one sort,

and for my part I am very thankful to have missed them all. Oh, happy

accident! that, when it happened, seemed to us so great a misfortune,

yet is proven now to have been a blessing in disguise. And you, my poor

old horse, you could not have done us a greater service than to die

just when and where you did. Thanks to you we have escaped the

wolves—two-legged ones, which are perhaps the most to be dreaded of

all, as well as the ravenous brethren of this worthy lying here. What a

dainty feast the sweet, tender flesh of those plump little pullets,

Isabelle and Serafina, would have been for them, to say nothing of the

tougher stuff the rest of us are made of. What a bountiful meal we

should have furnished them—the murderous brutes!” While the tyrant was

indulging in this soliloquy Bellombre’s servant had detached the

chariot from the skeleton of the poor old horse, and had harnessed to

it, with considerable difficulty, the animal he had been leading, which

was terrified at sight of the bleeding, mutilated carcass of the wolf

lying on the snow, and the ghastly skeleton of its predecessor. Arrived

at the farm, the chariot was safely stowed away under a shed, and upon

examination it was found that nothing was missing. Indeed, something

had been left there, for a small clasp-knife was picked up in it, which

had fallen out of Chiquita’s pocket, and excited a great deal of

curiosity and conjecture. It was of Spanish make, and bore upon its

sharp, pointed blade, a sinister inscription in that language, to this

effect—

“When this viper bites you, make sure

That you must die—for there is no cure.”

No one could imagine how it had come there, and the tyrant was

especially anxious to clear up the mystery that puzzled them all.

Isabelle, who was a little inclined to be superstitious, and attach

importance to omens, signs of evil, and such-like, felt troubled about

it. She spoke Spanish perfectly, and understood the full force and

significance of the strange inscription upon the wicked-looking blade

of the tiny weapon.

Meantime, Scapin, dressed in his freshest and most gaudy costume, had

marched into the neighbouring town, carrying his drum; he stationed

himself in the large, public square, and made such good play with his

drum-sticks that he soon had a curious crowd around him, to whom he

made an eloquent address, setting forth in glowing terms the great

attractions offered by “the illustrious comedians of Hérode’s

celebrated troupe,” who, “for this night only,” would delight the

public by the representation of that screaming farce, the Rodomontades

of Captain Fracasse; to be followed by a “bewitching Moorish dance,”

performed by the “incomparable Mlle. Serafina.” After enlarging

brilliantly upon this theme, he added, that as they were “more desirous

of glory than profit,” they would be willing to accept provisions of

all kinds, instead of coin of the realm, in payment of places, from

those who had not the money to spare, and asked them to let all their

friends know. This closing announcement made a great sensation among

his attentive listeners, and he marched back to the farm, confident

that they would have a goodly number of spectators. There he found the

stage already erected in the barn, and a rehearsal in progress, which

was necessary on de Sigognac’s account.

Bellombre was instructing him in various minor details as the play went

on, and for a novice he did wonderfully well—acting with much spirit

and grace, showing decided talent, and remarkable aptitude. But it was

very evident that he was greatly annoyed by some portions of the piece,

and an angry flush mounted to the roots of his hair at the whacks and

cuffs so liberally bestowed upon the doughty captain.

His comrades spared him as much as possible—feeling that it must be

intensely repugnant to him—but he grew furious in spite of all his

efforts to control his temper, and at each fresh attack upon him his

flashing eyes and knitted brows betrayed the fierce rage he was in;

then, suddenly remembering that his role required a very different

expression of countenance, he would pull himself up, and endeavour to

imitate that which Matamore had been wont to assume in this character.

Bellombre, who was watching him critically, stopped him a moment, to

say: “You make a great mistake in attempting to suppress your natural

emotions; you should take care not to do it, for they produce a capital

effect, and you can create a new type of stage bully; when you have

gotten accustomed to this sort of thing, and no longer feel this

burning indignation, you must feign it. Strike out in a path of your

own, and you will be sure to attain success—far more so than if you

attempt to follow in another’s footsteps. Fracasse, as you represent

him, loves and admires courage, and would fain be able to manifest

it—he is angry with himself for being such an arrant coward. When free

from danger, he dreams of nothing but heroic exploits and superhuman

enterprises; but when any actual peril threatens him, his too vivid

imagination conjures up such terrible visions of bleeding wounds and

violent death that his heart fails him. Yet his pride revolts at the

idea of being beaten; for a moment he is filled with rage, but his

courage all disappears with the first blows he receives, and he finally

shows himself to be the poltroon that he himself despises. This method

it appears to me is far superior to the absurd grimaces, trembling

legs, and exaggerated gestures, by which indifferent actors endeavour

to excite the laughter of their audience—but meantime lose sight

entirely of their art.”

The baron gratefully accepted the veteran actor’s advice, and played

his part after the fashion indicated by him with so much spirit that

all present applauded his acting enthusiastically, and prophesied its

success. The performances were to begin at an early hour, and as the

time approached, de Sigognac put on poor Matamore’s costume, to which

he had fallen heir, and which Mme. Léonarde had taken in hand and

cleverly altered for him, so that he could get into it. He had a sharp

struggle with his pride as be donned this absurd dress, and made

himself ready for his debut as an actor, but resolutely repressed all

rising regrets, and determined faithfully to do his best in the new

role he had undertaken.

A large audience had gathered in the big barn, which was brilliantly

lighted, and the representation began before a full house. At the end

farthest from the stage, and behind the spectators, were some cattle in

their stalls, that stared at the unwonted scene with an expression of

stupid wonder in their great, soft eyes—the eyes that Homer, the grand

old Greek poet, deemed worthy to supply an epithet for the beauteous

orbs of majestic Juno herself—and in the midst of one of the most

exciting parts of the play, a calf among them was moved to express its

emotions by an unearthly groan, which did not in the least disconcert

the audience, but had nearly been too much for the gravity of the

actors upon the stage.

Captain Fracasse won much applause, and indeed acted his part

admirably, being under no constraint; for he did not need to fear the

criticism of this rustic audience as he would have done that of a more

cultivated and experienced one; and, too, he felt sure that there could

be nobody among the spectators that knew him, or anything about him.

The other actors were also vigorously clapped by the toil-hardened

hands of these lowly tillers of the soil—whose applause throughout was

bestowed, Bellombre declared, judiciously and intelligently. Serafina

executed her Moorish dance with a degree of agility and voluptuous

grace that would have done honour to a professional ballet-dancer, or

to a Spanish gipsy, and literally brought down the house.

But while de Sigognac was thus employed, far from his ancient château,

the portraits of his ancestors that hung upon its walls were frowning

darkly at the degeneracy of this last scion of their noble race, and a

sigh, almost a groan, that issued from their faded lips, echoed

dismally through the deserted house. In the kitchen, Pierre, with

Miraut and Beelzebub on either side of him—all three looking melancholy

and forlorn—sat thinking of his absent lord, and said aloud, “Oh, where

is my poor, dear master now?” a big tear rolling down his withered

cheek as he stooped to caress his dumb companions.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DUKE OF VALLOMBREUSE

The next morning Bellombre drew Blazius aside, and untying the strings

of a long leathern purse emptied out of it into the palm of his hand a

hundred _pistoles_, which he piled up neatly on the table by which they

were standing; to the great admiration of the pedant, who thought to

himself that his friend was a lucky fellow to be in possession of so

large a sum—absolute wealth in his eyes. But what was his surprise when

Bellombre swept them all up and put them into his own hands.

“You must have understood,” he said, “that I did not bring out this

money in order to torment you in like manner with Tantalus, and I want

you to take it, without any scruples, as freely as it is given—or

loaned, if you are too proud to accept a gift from an old friend. These

pieces were made to circulate—they are round, you see—and by this time

they must be tired of lying tied up in my old purse there. I have no

use for them; there’s nothing to spend them on here; the farm produces

everything that is needed in my household, so I shall not miss them,

and it is much better in every way that they should be in your hands.”

Not finding any adequate reply to make to this astonishing speech,

Blazius put the money into his pocket, and, after first administering

to his friend a cordial accolade, grasped and wrung his hand with

grateful fervour, while an inconvenient tear, that he had tried in vain

to wink away, ran down his jolly red nose. As Bellombre had said the

night before, affairs were brightening with the troupe; good fortune

had come at last, and the hard times they had met and struggled against

so bravely and uncomplainingly were among the things of the past. The

receipts of the previous evening—for there had been some money taken

in, as well as plentiful stores of edibles—added to Bellombre’s

_pistoles_, made a good round sum, and the chariot of Thespis, so

deplorably bare of late, was now amply provisioned. Not to do things by

halves, their generous host lent to the comedians two stout farm

horses, with a man to drive them into Poitiers, and bring them back

home again. They had on their gala-day harness, and from their

gaudily-painted, high-peaked collars hung strings of tiny bells, that

jingled cheerily at every firm, regular step of the great, gentle

creatures. So our travellers set out in high feather, and their entry

into Poitiers, though not so magnificent as Alexander’s into Babylon,

was still in very fine style indeed. As they threaded their way through

the narrow, tortuous streets of that ancient town, the noise of their

horses’ iron shoes ringing out against the rough stone pavement, and

the clatter of their wheels drew many inmates of the houses they passed

to the windows, and a little crowd collected around them as they stood

waiting for admission before the great entrance door of the _Armes de

France;_ the driver, meanwhile, cracking his whip till it sounded like

a volley of musketry, to which the horses responded by shaking their

heads, and making all the little bells about them jingle sharply and

merrily. There was a wonderful difference between this and their

arrival at the last inn they had stopped at—the night of the

snow-storm—and the landlord, hearing such welcome sounds without, ran

himself to admit his guests, and opened the two leaves of the great

door, so that the chariot could pass into the interior court. This

hotel was the finest in Poitiers, where all the rich and noble

travellers were in the habit of alighting, and there was an air of

gaiety and prosperity about it very pleasing to our comedians, in

contrast with all the comfortless, miserable lodgings they had been

obliged to put up with for a long time past. The landlord, whose

double, or rather triple chin testified to bountiful fare, and the

ruddy tints of his face to the excellence of his wines, seemed to be

the incarnation of good humour.

He was so plump, so fresh, so rosy and so smiling, that it was a

pleasure only to look at him. When he saw the tyrant, he fairly bubbled

over with delight. A troupe of comedians always attracted people to his

house, and brought him in a great deal of money; for the young men of

leisure of the town sought their company, and were constantly drinking

wine with the actors, and giving dainty little suppers, and treats of

various kinds, to the actresses.

“You are heartily welcome, Seignior Hérode! What happy chance brings

you this way?” said the landlord, smilingly. “It is a long time since

we have had the pleasure of seeing you at the _Armes de France_.”

“So it is, Maître Bilot,” the tyrant answered; “but we cannot be giving

our poor little performances always in the same place, you see; the

spectators would become so familiar with all our tricks that they could

do them themselves, so we are forced to absent ourselves for a while.

And how are things going on here, now? Have you many of the nobility

and gentry in town at present?”

“A great many, Seignior Hérode, for the hunting is over, so they have

come in from the châteaux. But they don’t know what to do with

themselves, for it is so dull and quiet here. People can’t be eating

and drinking all the time, and they are dying for want of a little

amusement. You will have full houses.”

“Well,” rejoined the tyrant, “then please give us seven or eight good

rooms, have three or four fat capons put down to roast, bring up, from

that famous cellar of yours, a dozen of the capital wine I used to

drink here—you know which I mean—and spread abroad the news of the

arrival of Hérode’s celebrated troupe at the _Armes de France_, with a

new and extensive _repertoire_, to give a few representations in

Poitiers.”

While this conversation was going on the rest of the comedians had

alighted, and were already being conducted to their respective rooms by

several servants. The one given to Isabelle was a little apart from the

others—those in their immediate vicinity being occupied—which was not

displeasing to the modest young girl, who was often greatly annoyed and

embarrassed by the promiscuous, free-and-easy way of getting on,

inseparable from such a Bohemian life. She always accepted the

inevitable with a good grace, and never complained of the vexation she

felt at being obliged to share her bed-chamber with Serafina or the

duenna, or perhaps both; but it was a luxury she had scarcely dared to

hope for to have her room entirely to herself, and moreover

sufficiently distant from her companions to insure her a good deal of

privacy.

In a marvellously short space of time the whole town had become

acquainted with the news of the arrival of the comedians, and the young

men of wealth and fashion began flocking to the hotel, to drink a

bottle of Maître Bilot’s wine, and question him about the beauty and

charms of the actresses; curling up the points of their mustaches as

they did so with such an absurdly conceited, insolent air of imaginary

triumph, that the worthy landlord could not help laughing in his sleeve

at them as he gave his discreet, mysterious answers, accompanied by

significant gestures calculated to turn the silly heads of these

dandified young calves, and make them wild with curiosity and

impatience.

Isabelle, when left alone, had first unpacked a portion of her

clothing, and arranged it neatly on the shelves of the wardrobe in her

room, and then proceeded to indulge in the luxury of a bath and

complete change of linen. She took down her long, fine, silky hair,

combed it carefully, and arranged it tastefully, with a pale blue

ribbon entwined artistically in it; which delicate tint was very

becoming to her, with her fair, diaphanous complexion, and lovely

flush, like a rose-leaf, on her cheek. When she had put on the silvery

gray dress, with its pretty blue trimmings, which completed her simple

toilet, she smiled at her own charming reflection in the glass, and

thought of a pair of dark, speaking eyes that she knew would find her

fair, and pleasant to look upon. As she turned away from the mirror a

sunbeam streamed in through her window, and she could not resist the

temptation to open the casement and put her pretty head out, to see

what view there might be from it. She looked down into a narrow,

deserted alley, with the wall of the hotel on one side and that of the

garden opposite on the other, so high that it reached above the tops of

the trees within. From her window she could look down into this garden,

and see, quite at the other end of it, the large mansion it belonged

to, whose lofty, blackened walls testified to its antiquity. Two

gentlemen were walking slowly, arm in arm, along one of the broad paths

leading towards the house, engrossed in conversation; both were young

and handsome, but they were scarcely of equal rank, judging by the

marked deference paid by one, the elder, to the other.

We will call this friendly pair Orestes and Pylades for the present,

until we ascertain their real names. The former was about one or two

and twenty, and remarkably handsome and _distingué_—strikingly so—with

a very white skin, intensely black hair and eyes, a tall, slender,

lithe figure, shown to advantage by the rich costume of tan-coloured

velvet he wore; and well-formed feet, with high, arched insteps, small

and delicate enough for a woman’s—that more than one woman had envied

him—encased in dainty, perfectly fitting boots, made of white Russia

leather. From the careless ease of his manners, and the haughty grace

of his carriage, one would readily divine that he was a great noble;

one of the favoured few of the earth, who are sure of being well

received everywhere, and courted and flattered by everybody. Pylades,

though a good-looking fellow enough, with auburn hair and mustache, was

not nearly so handsome or striking, either in face or figure, as his

companion. They were talking of women; Orestes declaring himself a

woman-hater from that time forward, because of what he was pleased to

call the persecutions of his latest mistress, of whom he was thoroughly

tired—no new thing with him—but who would not submit to be thrown

aside, like a cast-off glove, without making a struggle to regain the

favour of her ci-devant admirer. He was anathematizing the vanity,

treachery, and deceitfulness of all women, without exception, from the

duchess down to the dairy-maid, and declaring that he should renounce

their society altogether for the future, when they reached the end of

the walk, at the house, and turned about to pace its length again.

As they did so he chanced to glance upward, and perceived Isabelle at

her window. He nudged his companion, to direct his attention to her, as

he said, “Just look up at that window! Do you see the delicious,

adorable creature there? She seems a goddess, rather than a mere mortal

woman—Aurora, looking forth from her chamber in the East—with her

golden brown hair, her heavenly countenance, and her sweet, soft eyes.

Only observe the exquisite grace of her attitude—leaning slightly

forward on one elbow, so as to bring into fine relief the shapely

curves of her beautiful form. I would be willing to swear that hers is

a lovely character—different from the rest of her sex. She is one by

herself—a peerless creature—a very pearl of womanhood—a being fit for

Paradise. Her face tells me that she is modest, pure, amiable, and

refined. Her manners must be charming, her conversation fresh,

sparkling, and elevating.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed Pylades, laughingly, “what good eyes you must

have to make out all that at such a distance! Now I see merely a woman

at a window, who is rather pretty, to tell the honest truth, but not

likely to possess half the perfections you so lavishly bestow upon her.

Take care, or you will be in love with her directly.”

“Oh! I’m that now, over head and ears. I must find out forthwith who

she is, and what; but one thing is certain, mine she must be, though it

cost me the half, nay, the whole of my fortune to win her, and there be

a hundred rivals to overcome and slay ere I can carry her off from them

in triumph.”

“Come, come, don’t get so excited,” said Pylades, “you will throw

yourself into a fever; but what has become of the contempt and hatred

for the fair sex you were declaring so vehemently just now? The first

pretty face has routed it all.”

“But when I talked like that I did not know that this lovely angel

existed upon earth, and what I said was an odious, outrageous

blasphemy—a monstrous, abominable heresy—for which I pray that Venus,

fair goddess of love and beauty, will graciously forgive me.”

“Oh, yes! she’ll forgive you fast enough, never fear, for she is always

very indulgent to such hot-headed lovers as you are.”

“I am going to open the campaign,” said Orestes, “and declare war

courteously on my beautiful enemy.”

With these words he stopped short, fixed his bold eyes on Isabelle’s

face, took off his hat, in a gallant and respectful way, so that its

long plume swept the ground, and wafted a kiss on the tips of his

fingers towards the new object of his ardent admiration. The young

actress, who saw this demonstration with much annoyance, assumed a

cold, composed manner, as if to show this insolent fellow that he had

made a mistake, drew back from the window, closed it, and let fall the

curtain; all done calmly and deliberately, and with the frigid dignity

with which she was wont to rebuke such overtures.

“There,” exclaimed Pylades, “your Aurora is hidden behind a cloud; not

very promising, that, for the rest of the day.”

“I don’t agree with you; I regard it, on the contrary, as a favourable

augury that my little beauty has retired. Don’t you know that when the

soldier hides himself behind the battlements of the tower, it signifies

that the besieger’s arrow has hit him? I tell you she has mine now,

sticking in under her left wing; that kiss will force her to think of

me all night, if only to be vexed with me, and tax me with effrontery—a

fault which is never displeasing to ladies, I find, though they do

sometimes make a great outcry about it, for the sake of appearances.

There is something between me and the fair unknown now; a very slight,

almost imperceptible thread it may seem at present, but I will so

manage as to make from it a rope, by which I shall climb up into her

window.”

“I must admit,” rejoined Pylades respectfully, “that you certainly are

wonderfully well versed in all the stratagems and ruses of

love-making.”

“I rather pique myself upon my accomplishments in that line, I will

confess,” Orestes said, laughingly; “but come, let’s go in now; the

little beauty was startled, and will not show herself at the window

again just yet. This evening I shall begin operations in earnest.” And

the two friends turned about and strolled slowly back towards the

house, which they presently entered, and disappeared from sight.

There was a large tennis-court not far from the hotel, which was

wonderfully well suited to make a theatre of; so our comedians hired

it, took immediate possession, set carpenters and painters to work,

furbished up their own rather dilapidated scenery and decorations, and

soon had a charming little theatre, in which all the numbered seats and

boxes were eagerly snapped up, directly they were offered to “the

nobility and gentry of Poitiers,” who secured them for all the

representations to be given by the troupe, so that success was insured.

The dressing-room of the tennis players had to serve as green-room, and

dressing-room as well for the comedians, large folding screens being

disposed round the toilet tables of the actresses, so as to shut them

off as much as possible from the gentlemen visitors always lounging

there. Not a very agreeable arrangement for the former, but the best

that could be done, and highly approved by the latter, of course.

“What a pity it is,” said the tyrant to Blazius, as they were arranging

what pieces they could play, seated at a window looking into the

interior court of the _Armes de France_, “what a great pity it is that

Zerbine is not with us here. She is almost worth her weight in gold,

that little minx; a real treasure, so full of fun and deviltry that

nobody can resist her acting; she would make any piece go off well—a

pearl of _soubrette_s is Zerbine.”

“Yes, she is a rare one,” Blazius replied, with a deep sigh, “and I

regret more and more every day our having lost her. The devil fly away

with that naughty marquis who must needs go and rob us of our paragon

of waiting-maids.”

Just at this point they were interrupted by the noise of an arrival,

and leaning out of the window saw three fine mules, richly caparisoned

in the gay Spanish fashion, entering the court, with a great jingling

of bells and clattering of hoofs. On the first one was mounted a lackey

in gray livery, and well armed, who led by a long strap a second mule

heavily laden with baggage, and on the third was a young woman, wrapped

in a large cloak trimmed with fur, and with her hat, a gray felt with a

scarlet feather, drawn down over her eyes, so as to conceal her face

from the two interested spectators at the window above.

“I say, Hérode,” exclaimed the pedant, “doesn’t all this remind you of

something? It seems to me this is not the first time we have heard the

jingling of those bells, eh?”

“By Saint Alipantin!” cried the tyrant, joyfully, “these are the very

mules that carried Zerbine off so mysteriously. Speak of a wolf—”

“And you will hear the rustling of his wings,” interrupted Blazius,

with a peal of laughter. “Oh! thrice happy day!—day to be marked with

white!—for this is really Mlle. Zerbine in person. Look, she jumps down

from her mule with that bewitching little air peculiar to herself, and

throws her cloak to that obsequious lackey with a nonchalance worthy of

a princess; there, she has taken off her hat, and shakes out her raven

tresses as a bird does its feathers; it delights my old eyes to see her

again. Come, let’s go down and welcome her.”

So Blazius and his companions hastened down to the court, and met

Zerbine just as she turned to enter the house.

The impetuous girl rushed at the pedant, threw her arms around his

neck, and kissed him heartily, crying, “I must kiss your dear, jolly,

ugly old face, just the same as though it were young and handsome, for

I am so glad, so very glad to see it again. Now don’t you be jealous,

Hérode, and scowl as if you were just going to order the slaughter of

the innocents; wait a minute! I’m going to kiss you, too; I only began

with my dear old Blazius here because he’s the ugliest.”

And Zerbine loyally fulfilled her promise. Then giving a hand to each

of her companions, went up-stairs between them to the room Maître Bilot

had ordered to be made ready for her. The moment she entered it she

threw herself down into an arm-chair standing near the door, and began

to draw long deep breaths, like a person who has just gotten rid of a

heavy load.

“You cannot imagine,” she said after a little, “how glad I am to get

back to you again, though you needn’t go and imagine that I am in love

with your old phizes because of that; I’m not in love with anybody,

Heaven be praised! I’m so joyful because I’ve gotten back into my own

element once more. Everything is badly off out of its own element, you

know. The water will not do for birds, nor the air for fishes. I am an

actress by nature, and the atmosphere of the theatre is my native air;

in it alone do I breathe freely; even its unpleasant odours are sweet

to my nostrils. Real, everyday life seems very dull and flat. I must

have imaginary love affairs to manage for other people, and take part

in the whirl of romantic adventures to be found only on the stage, to

keep me alive and happy. So I’ve come back to claim my old place again.

I hope you haven’t found any one else to fill it; though of course I

know that you couldn’t get anybody to really replace me. If you had I

should scratch her eyes out, that I promise you, for I am a real little

devil when my rights are encroached upon, though you might not think

it.”

“There’s no need for you to show your prowess in that way,” said the

tyrant, “for we have not had any one to take your role, and we’re

delighted, overjoyed, to have you back again. If you had had some of

the magic compound Apuleius tells us of, and had thereby changed

yourself into a bird, to come and listen to what Blazius and I were

saying a little while ago, you would have heard nothing but good of

yourself—a rare thing that for listeners—and you would have heard some

very enthusiastic praise besides.”

“That’s charming!” the _soubrette_ exclaimed. “I see that you two are

just the same good old souls as ever, and that you have missed your

little Zerbine.”

Several servants now came in, carrying trunks, boxes, portmanteaus,

packages, no end of baggage, which Zerbine counted over and found

correct; and when they had gone she opened two or three of the larger

chests with the keys she had on a small silver ring. They were filled

with all sorts of handsome things—silks and velvets, laces and

jewels—and among the rest a long purse, crammed as full as it could

hold of gold pieces, which Zerbine poured out in a heap on the table;

seeming to take a childish delight in looking at and playing with her

golden treasure, while laughing and chattering merrily all the time.

“Serafina would burst with rage and envy if she should see all this

money,” said she gaily, “so we will keep it out of her sight. I only

show it to you to prove that I didn’t need to return to my profession,

but was actuated by a pure love of my art. As to you, my good old

friends, if your finances happen to be not just as you could wish, put

your paws into this and help yourselves; take just as much as ever they

will hold.”

The two actors thanked her heartily for her generous offer, but assured

her that they were very well off, and in need of no assistance.

“Ah well!” said Zerbine, “it will be for another time then. I shall put

it away in my strong box, and keep it for you, like a faithful

treasurer.”

“But surely you haven’t abandoned the poor marquis,” said Blazius,

rather reproachfully. “Of course I know there was no question of his

giving you up; you are not one of that sort. The role of Ariadne would

not suit you at all; you are a Circe. Yet he is a splendid young

nobleman-handsome, wealthy, amiable, and not wanting in wit.”

“Oh! I haven’t given him up; very far from it,” Zerbine replied, with a

saucy smile. “I shall guard him carefully, as the most precious gem in

my casket. Though I have quitted him for the moment, he will shortly

follow me.”

“Fugax sequax, sequax fugax,” the pedant rejoined; “these four Latin

words, which have a cabalistic sound, not unlike the croaking of

certain batrachians, and might have been borrowed, one would say, from

the ‘Comedy of the Frogs,’ by one Aristophanes, an Athenian poet,

contain the very pith and marrow of all theories of love and

lovemaking; they would make a capital rule to regulate everybody’s

conduct—of the virile as well as of the fair sex.”

“And what under the sun do your fine Latin words mean, you pompous old

pedant?” asked Zerbine. “You have neglected to translate them, entirely

forgetting that not everybody has been professor in a college, and

knight of the ferule, like yourself.”

“Their meaning,” he replied, “may be expressed in this little couplet:

‘If you fly from men, they’ll be sure to pursue,

But if you follow them, they will fly from you.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Zerbine, “that’s a verse that ought to be set to

music.” And she began singing it to a merry tune at the top of her

voice; a voice so clear and ringing that it was a pleasure to hear it.

She accompanied her song with such an amusing and effective pantomime,

representing flight and pursuit, that it was a pity she had not had a

larger audience to enjoy it. After this outburst of merriment she

quieted down a little, and gave her companions a brief, history of her

adventures since she had parted from them, declaring that the marquis

had invariably treated her with the courtesy and generosity of a

prince. But in spite of it all she had longed for her old wandering

life with the troupe, the excitement of acting, and the rounds of

applause she never failed to win; and at last she confessed to the

marquis that she was pining for her role of _soubrette_.

“‘Very well,’ he said to me, ‘you can take your mules and your

belongings and go in pursuit of the troupe, and I will shortly follow

in pursuit of you. I have some matters to look after in Paris, that

have been neglected of late, and I have been too long absent from the

court. You will permit me to applaud you I suppose, and truth to tell I

shall be very glad to enjoy your bewitching acting again.’ So I told

him I would look for him among the audience every evening till he made

his appearance, and, after the most tender leave-taking, I jumped on my

mule and caught you up here at the _Armes de France_, as you know.”

“But,” said Hérode, “suppose your marquis should not turn up at all!

you would be regularly sold.”

This idea struck Zerbine as being so utterly absurd that she threw

herself back and laughed until she had to hold her sides, and was

fairly breathless. “The marquis not come!” she cried, when she could

speak, “you had better engage rooms for him right away—not come! Why my

fear was that he would overtake me on the road; you will see him very

soon, I can guarantee. Ah! you abominable old bear! you doubt the power

of my charms, do you? You’re decidedly growing stupid, Hérode, as you

grow old; you used to be rather clever than otherwise.”

At this moment appeared Leander and Scapin, who had heard of Zerbine’s

arrival from the servants, and came to pay their respects, soon

followed by old Mme. Léonarde, who greeted the _soubrette_ with as much

obsequiousness as if she had-been a princess. Isabelle came also to

welcome her, to the great delight of Zerbine, who was devotedly fond of

her, and always trying to do something to please her. She now insisted

upon presenting her with a piece of rich silk, which Isabelle accepted

very reluctantly, and only when she found that the warm-hearted

_soubrette_ would be really wounded if she refused her first gift.

Serafina had shut herself up in her own room, and was the only one that

failed to come and bid Zerbine welcome. She could neither forget nor

forgive the inexplicable preference of the Marquis de Bruyères for her

humble rival, and she called the _soubrette_ all sorts of hard names in

her wrath and indignation; but nobody paid any attention to her bad

humour, and she was left to sulk in solitude.

When Zerbine asked why Matamore had not come to speak to her with the

rest, they told her the sad story of his death, and also that the Baron

de Sigognac now filled his role, under the name of Captain Fracasse.

“It will be a great honour for me to act with a gentleman whose

ancestors figured honourably in the crusades,” said she, “and I only

hope that my profound respect for him will not overwhelm me, and spoil

my acting; fortunately I have become pretty well accustomed to the

society of people of rank lately.”

A moment later de Sigognac knocked at the door, and came in to greet

Zerbine, and courteously express his pleasure at her return. She rose

as he approached, and making a very low curtsey, said, “This is for the

Baron de Sigognac; and this is for my comrade, Captain Fracasse;”

kissing him on both cheeks—which unexpected and unprecedented

proceeding put poor de Sigognac completely out of countenance; partly

because he was not used to such little theatrical liberties, but more,

because he was ashamed to have such a thing happen in the presence of

his pure and peerless Isabelle.

And now we will return to Orestes and Pylades, who, after their

eventful promenade in the garden, were cosily dining together. The

former, that is to say the young Duke of Vallombreuse, had scarcely

eaten any dinner, and had even neglected his glass of wine, so

preoccupied was he with thoughts of his lovely unknown. The Chevalier

de Vidalinc, his friend and confidant, tried in vain to draw him into

conversation; he replied only by monosyllables, or not at all, to the

other’s brilliant sallies. When the dessert had been put upon the

table, and the servants had retired and left them alone, the chevalier

said to the duke: “I am entirely at your service in this new affair, of

course, ready to help you bag your bird in any way you please; shall I

go and send out the beaters to drive it towards your nets?”

“No, indeed, you will do nothing of the kind; I shall go myself, for

there is nothing I enjoy so much as the pursuit of game, of whatever

sort it may be. I would follow a deer, or a pheasant, to the ends of

the earth but what I would have it; how much more a divine creature

like this. It is only after I have captured the flying prize that I

lose all interest in it; so do not, I pray you, propose to deprive me

of the delights of the chase; the more difficult it is the better I

like it, the more fascinating I find it. The most annoying thing is

that women are always so willing to be caught; if I could only find an

obdurate, cruel fair one, who would fly from me in earnest, how I

should adore her! but, alas! such an anomaly does not exist on this

terraqueous globe.”

“If I were not so well acquainted with your innumerable triumphs, I

should be obliged to tax you with conceit,” said Vidalinc, “but as it

is I must admit that you are justified in what you say. But perhaps

your wish may be gratified this time, for the young beauty certainly

did seem to be very modest and retiring, as well as positively cold and

forbidding in her manner of receiving your little act of gallantry.”

“We will see about that, and without any delay. Maître Bilot is always

ready and glad to tell all he knows whenever he can secure a good

listener, and he is sharp enough to find out very quickly pretty much

all that’s worth knowing about his guests in the hotel. Come, we’ll go

and drink a bottle of his best Madeira; I will draw him out, and get

all the information he can give us about this fair inmate of his

house.”

A few minutes later the two young gentlemen entered the _Armes de

France_, and asked for Maître Bilot. The worthy landlord came forward

at once, and himself conducted them into a cosy, well-lighted room on

the ground floor, where a bright fire was burning cheerily; he took the

old, dusty bottle, with cobwebs clinging about it, from the waiter’s

hands, drew the cork very carefully, and then poured the amber wine, as

clear as a topaz, into the delicate Venetian glasses held out for it by

the duke and his companion, with a hand as steady as if it had been of

bronze. In taking upon himself this office Maître Bilot affected an

almost religious solemnity, as though he were a priest of Bacchus,

officiating at his altar, and about to celebrate the mysterious rites

of the ancient worshippers of that merry god; nothing was wanting but

the crown of vine leaves. He seemed to think that this ceremoniousness

was a sort of testimony to the superior quality of the wine from his

well-stocked cellar, which needed no recommendation, for it was really

very good, worthy of even a royal table, and of wide-spread fame.

Maître Bilot, having finished his little performance, was about to

withdraw, when a significant glance from the duke made him pause

respectfully on the threshold.

“Maître Bilot,” said he, “fetch a glass for yourself from the buffet

there, and come and drink a bumper of this capital wine to my health.”

This command, for such it was in reality, was instantly obeyed, and

after emptying his glass at a single draught, the well-pleased landlord

stood, with one hand resting on the table and his eyes fixed on the

duke, waiting to see, what was wanted of him.

“Have you many strangers in your house now?” asked Vallombreuse, “and

who and what are they?” Bilot was about to reply, but the young duke

interrupted him, and continued, “But what’s the use of beating about

the bush with such a wily old miscreant as you are, Maître Bilot? Who

is the lady that has the room with a window, the third one from the

corner, looking into my garden? Answer to the point, and you shall have

a gold piece for every syllable.”

“Under those conditions,” said Bilot, with a broad grin, “one must be

very virtuous indeed to make use of the laconic style so highly

esteemed by the ancients. However, as I am devoted to your lordship, I

will answer in a single word—Isabelle.”

“Isabelle! a charming and romantic name. But do not confine yourself to

such Lacedaemonian brevity, Maître Bilot; be prolix! and relate to me,

minutely, everything that you know about the lovely Isabelle.”

“I am proud and happy to obey your lordship’s commands,” the worthy

landlord answered, with a low bow; “my cellar, my kitchen, my tongue

and myself are all at your lordship’s disposition. Isabelle is an

actress, belonging to the celebrated troupe of Seignior Hérode,

stopping at present at the _Armes de France_.”

“An actress!” exclaimed the young duke, with an air of disappointment.

“I should have taken her for a lady of rank, from her quiet, dignified

mien, or at least a well-bred _bourgeoise_, rather than a member of a

band of strolling players.”

“Yes, your lordship is right; any one might think so, for her manners

and appearance are very lady-like, and she has an untarnished

reputation, despite the difficulties of her position. No one

understands better how to keep all the gallants that hover about her at

a respectful distance; she treats these would-be suitors for her favour

with a cold, reserved, yet perfect politeness that there is no getting

over.”

“What you say pleases me,” interrupted Vallombreuse, “for there is

nothing I so thoroughly despise as a fortress that is ready to

capitulate before the first assault has been made.”

“It would need more than one to conquer this fair citadel, my lord,

though you are a bold and successful captain, not used to encountering

any serious resistance, and sweeping everything before you; and,

moreover, it is guarded by the vigilant sentinel of a pure and devoted

love.”

“Oh ho! she has a lover then, this modest Isabelle!” cried the young

duke, in a tone at once triumphant and annoyed, for though on the one

side he had no faith in the steadfast virtue of any woman, on the other

he was vexed to learn that he had a successful rival.

“I said love, not lover,” continued the landlord with respectful

persistency, “which is by no means the same thing. Your lordship is too

well versed in such matters not to appreciate the difference. A woman

that has one lover may have two, as the old song says; but a woman who

loves, with a pure love, and has that love returned in every sense, it

is impossible, or at least very difficult, to win away from it. She

possesses already everything that you, my lord, or any one, could offer

for her acceptance.”

“You talk as if you had been studying the subject of love

diligently—and Petrarch’s sonnets as well; but notwithstanding all

that, Maître Bilot, I don’t believe you thoroughly understand anything

outside of your own wines and sauces, which, I am bound to admit, are

always excellent. And pray, who is the favoured object of this Platonic

attachment?”

“One of the members of the troupe,” Bilot replied, “and it is not to be

wondered at, for he’s a handsome young fellow, and very different from

the rest of them; far superior, more like a gentleman than an actor;

and I shrewdly suspect he is one,” added the landlord, with a knowing

look.

“Well, now you must be happy!” said the Chevalier de Vidalinc to his

friend. “Here are unexpected obstacles in plenty, and a perfect

none-such of a prize. A virtuous actress is a rare phenomenon, not to

be found every day in the week. You are in luck!”

“Are you sure,” continued the young duke, still addressing the

landlord, and without paying any attention to the last remark, “that

this chaste Isabelle does not accord any privileges secretly to that

conceited young jackanapes? I despise the fellow thoroughly, and detest

him as well.”

“Your lordship does not know her,” answered Maître Bilot, “or I should

not need to declare, as I do, that she is as spotless as the ermine.

She would rather die than suffer a stain upon her purity. It is

impossible to see much of her without perceiving that; it shines out in

everything that she says and does.”

Hereupon a long discussion followed as to the best manner of conducting

the attack upon this fair citadel, which the young nobleman became more

and more determined to conquer, as new difficulties were suggested. The

worthy landlord, who was a shrewd fellow and had made a just estimate

of Isabelle’s character, finished by advising his noble interlocutor to

turn his attention to Serafina, “who was very charming, and not less

beautiful than Isabelle, and who would be greatly pleased and flattered

by his lordship’s notice.” This, because he felt sure that the duke

would not succeed with Isabelle, in spite of his exalted rank, handsome

person, and immense wealth, and he wished to spare him an inevitable

disappointment.

“It is Isabelle that I admire, and will have,” said Vallombreuse, in a

dry tone that put an end to the discussion. “Isabelle, and no other,

Maître Bilot.”

Then plunging his hand into his pocket, he drew forth a goodly number

of gold pieces, and throwing them down carelessly on the table, said,

“Pay yourself for the bottle of wine out of this, and keep the

balance.”

The landlord gathered up the _louis_ with a deprecating air, and

dropped them one by one into his purse. The two gentlemen rose, without

another word, put on their broad, plumed hats, threw their cloaks on

their shoulders, and quitted the hotel. Vallombreuse took several turns

up and down the narrow alley between the _Armes de France_ and his own

garden wall, looking up searchingly at Isabelle’s window every time he

passed under it; but it was all for naught. Isabelle, now on her guard,

did not approach the window again; the curtain was drawn closely over

it, and not a sign visible from without that the room was occupied.

Tired at last of this dull work, the duke slowly withdrew to his own

mansion, feeling highly indignant that this inappreciative little

actress should presume to slight the attentions of a great and powerful

noble like himself; but he found some comfort in the thought that when

she came to see and know him she could not long hold out against his

numerous attractions. As to his rival—if the fellow ventured to

interfere with him too much, he would quietly suppress him, by means of

certain stout ruffians—professional cut-throats—he had in his employ,

to do all that sort of work for him; his own dignity not allowing him

to come into personal contact with such cattle as actors. Though

Vallombreuse had not seen anything of Isabelle at her window, he

himself had been closely watched, by jealous eyes, from a neighbouring

casement that commanded the same view. They belonged to de Sigognac,

who was greatly annoyed and incensed by the manœuvres of this

mysterious personage under Isabelle’s window. A dozen times he was on

the point of rushing down, sword in hand, to attack and drive away the

impertinent unknown; but he controlled himself by a strong effort; for

there was after all nothing in the mere fact of a man’s promenading

back and forth in a deserted alley to justify him in such an onslaught,

and he would only bring down ridicule on himself; besides, the name of

Isabelle might be dragged in—sweet Isabelle, who was all unconscious of

the ardent glances directed at her window from below, as well as of the

burning indignation, because of them, of her own true lover close at

hand. But he promised himself to keep a watchful eye for the future

upon this young gallant, and studied his features carefully, every time

his face was raised towards Isabelle’s window, so that he should be

sure to recognise him when he saw him again.

Hérode had selected for their first representation in Poitiers a new

play, which all the comedians were very much occupied in learning and

rehearsing, to be followed by the Rodomontades of Captain Fracasse, in

which de Sigognac was to make his real debut before a real public

having only acted as yet to an audience of calves, horned cattle, and

peasants in Bellombre’s barn. He was studying diligently under the

direction of Blazius, who was more devoted to him than ever, and who

had proposed something which was a most welcome suggestion to the

sensitive young baron. This was for him to wear what is called a

half-mask, which covers only the forehead and nose, but if arranged

with skill alters entirely the wearer’s appearance—so that his nearest

friend would not recognise him—without interfering materially with his

comfort. This idea de Sigognac hailed with delight, for it insured his

preserving his incognito; the light pasteboard screen seemed to him

like the closed visor of a helmet, behind which he need not shrink from

facing the enemy—that is to stay the gazing crowd on the other side of

the foot-lights. With it he would take merely the part of the unknown,

concealed intelligence that directs the movements of the marionette,

and the voice that makes it speak; only he should be within it, instead

of behind the scenes pulling the strings—his dignity would have nothing

to suffer in playing the game in that manner, and for this relief from

a dreaded ordeal he was unspeakably thankful. Blazius, who never could

take too much pains in the service of his dear baron, himself modelled

and fashioned the little mask, very deftly, so as to make his stage

physiognomy as unlike his real, every-day countenance as possible. A

prominent nose, very red at the point, bushy, high-arched eyebrows, and

an immensely heavy mustache drooping over his mouth, completely

disguised the well-cut, regular features of the handsome young

nobleman, and although in reality it only concealed the forehead and

nose, yet it transfigured the whole face.

There was to be a dress rehearsal the evening before the first

representation, so that they might judge of the general effect in their

improvised theatre, and test its capabilities; and as the actresses

could not very well go through the streets in full costume, they were

to finish their toilets in the green-room, while the actor themselves

ready for the stage in the small dressing-closets set aside for that

purpose. All the gentlemen in Poitiers, young and old, were wild to

penetrate into this temple, or rather sacristy, of Thalia, where the

priestesses of that widely worshipped muse adorned themselves to

celebrate her mysterious rites, and a great number of them had

succeeded in gaining admittance. They crowded round the actresses,

offering advice as to the placing of a flower or a jewel, handing the

powder-box or the rouge-pot, presenting the little hand-mirror, taking

upon themselves all such small offices with the greatest

“_empressement_,” and vying with each other in their gallant attendance

upon the fair objects of their admiration; the younger and more timid

among them holding a little aloof and sitting on the large chests

scattered about, swinging their feet and twisting their mustaches,

while they watched the proceedings of their bolder companions with

envious eyes. Each actress had her own circle of admiring cavaliers

about her, paying her high-flown compliments in the exaggerated

language of the day, and doing their best to make themselves agreeable

in every way they could think of. Zerbine laughed at them all, and made

fun of them unmercifully, turning everything they said into ridicule;

yet so coquettishly that they thought her bewitching, in spite of her

sharp tongue, which was like a two-edged sword. Serafina, whose vanity

was overweening, delighted in the fulsome homage paid to her charms,

and smiled encouragingly upon her throng of admirers, but Isabelle, who

was intensely annoyed at the whole thing, did not pay the slightest

attention to them, nor even once raise her eyes to look at them; being

apparently absorbed in the duties of her toilet, which she accomplished

as quietly and modestly as possible—having left only the finishing

touches to be given in that public place.

The Duke of Vallombreuse was careful, of course, not to miss this

excellent opportunity, of which he had been informed by Maître Bilot,

to see Isabelle again, and entering the green-room in good season,

followed by his friend Vidalinc, marched straight up to her

toilet-table. He was enchanted to find that, on this close inspection,

she was even more beautiful than he had supposed, and in his

enthusiastic delight at this discovery could scarcely refrain from

seizing her in his arms and declaring his passion there and then; only

the presence of the crowd of lookers-on saved Isabelle from what would

have been a most trying and painful scene.

The young duke was superbly dressed. He had spared no pains, for he

wanted to dazzle Isabelle, and he certainly did look splendidly

handsome. He wore a magnificent costume of rich white satin, slashed

and trimmed with crimson, with many knots of ribbon about it fastened

with diamond clasps, with broad ruffles of exquisitely fine lace at

throat and wrists, with a wide belt of cloth of silver supporting his

sword, and with perfumed gloves on the hands that held his white felt

hat, with its long crimson feather. His wavy black hair fell around the

perfect oval of his face, enhancing its smooth whiteness; a delicate

mustache shaded, not concealed, his full red lips; his splendid, great

black eyes flashed through their thick, silky fringes, and his neck,

white and round as a marble column, rose from amid its surrounding of

soft, priceless lace, proudly supporting his haughty, handsome head.

Yet with all this perfection of outline and colouring, his appearance

was not entirely pleasing; a repelling haughtiness shone out through

the perfectly modelled features, and it was but too evident that the

joys and sorrows of his fellow mortals would awaken no sympathy in the

owner of that surpassingly handsome face and form. He believed that he

was not made of common clay like other men, but was a being of a higher

order, who condescended to mingle with his inferiors—a piece of fine

porcelain amid homely vessels of coarser earthenware.

Vallombreuse stationed himself silently close beside the mirror on

Isabelle’s dressing-table, leaning one elbow on its frame all the other

gallants respectfully making way for him—just where she could not

possibly help seeing him whenever she looked in the glass; a skilful

manœuvre, which would surely have succeeded with any other than this

modest young girl. He wished to produce an impression, before

addressing a word to her, by his personal beauty, his lordly mien, and

his magnificence of apparel. Isabelle, who had instantly recognised the

audacious gallant of the garden, and who was displeased by the

imperious ardour of his gaze, redoubled her reserve of manner, and did

not lift her eyes to the mirror in front of her at all; she did not

even seem to be aware that one of the handsomest young noblemen in all

France was standing there before her, trying to win a glance from her

lovely eyes—but then, she was a singular girl, this sweet Isabelle! At

length, exasperated by her utter indifference, Vallombreuse suddenly

took the initiative, and said to her, “Mademoiselle, you take the part

of Sylvia in this new play, do you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Isabelle answered curtly, without looking at him—not able

to evade this direct question.

“Then never will a part have been so admirably played,” continued the

duke. “If it is poor your acting will make it excellent, if it is fine

you will make it peerless. Ah! happy indeed the poet whose verses are

intrusted to those lovely lips of yours.”

These vague compliments were only such as admiring gallants were in the

habit of lavishing upon pretty actresses, and Isabelle could not with

any show of reason resent it openly, but she acknowledged it only by a

very slight bend of the head, and still without looking up. At this

moment de Sigognac entered the green-room; he was masked and in full

costume, just buckling around his waist the belt of the big sword he

had inherited from Matamore, with the cobweb dangling from the

scabbard. He also marched straight up to Isabelle, and was received

with a radiant smile.

“You are capitally gotten up,” she said to him in a low, tone, so low

that he had to bend down nearer her to hear, “and I am sure that no

fierce Spanish captain ever had a more superbly arrogant air than you.”

The Duke of Vallombreuse drew himself up to his full height, and looked

this unwelcome new-comer over from head to foot, with an air of the

coolest, most haughty disdain. “This must be the contemptible scoundrel

they say she’s in love with,” he said to himself, swelling with

indignation and spite—filled with amazement too—for he could not

conceive of a woman’s hesitating for an instant between the magnificent

young Duke of Vallombreuse and this ridiculous play-actor. After the

first rapid glance he made as if he did not perceive de Sigognac at

all, no more than if he had been a piece of furniture standing there;

for him Captain Fracasse was not a _man_, but a _thing_, and he

continued to gaze fixedly at poor Isabelle—his eyes fairly blazing with

passion—exactly as though no one was near. She, confused at last, and

alarmed, blushed painfully, in spite of all her efforts to appear calm

and unmoved, and hastened to finish what little remained to be done, so

that she might make her escape, for she could see de Sigognac’s hand

close spasmodically on the handle of his sword, and, realizing how he

must be feeling, feared an outbreak on his part. With trembling fingers

she adjusted a little black “_mouche_” near the corner of her pretty

mouth, and pushed back her chair preparatory to rising from it—having a

legitimate cause for haste, as the tyrant had already more than once

roared out from the stage door, “Mesdemoiselles, are you ready?”

“Permit me, mademoiselle,” said the duke starting forward, “you have

forgotten to put on an ‘_assassine_,’” and touching the tip of his

forefinger to his lips he plunged it into the box of patches standing

open on the dressing-table, and brought one out on it. “Permit me to

put it on for you—here, just above your snowy bosom; it will enhance

its exquisite whiteness.”

The action followed so quickly upon the words that Isabelle, terrified

at this cruel effrontery, had scarcely time to start to one side, and

so escape his profane touch; but the duke was not one to be easily

balked in anything he particularly desired to do, and pressing nearer

he again extended his hand towards Isabelle’s white neck, and had

almost succeeded in accomplishing his object, when his arm was seized

from behind, and held firmly in a grasp of iron.

Furiously angry, he turned his head to see who had dared to lay hands

upon his sacred person, and perceived that it was the odious Captain

Fracasse.

“My lord duke,” said he calmly, still holding his wrist firmly,

“Mademoiselle is in need of no assistance from you, or any one else, in

this matter.” Then his grasp relaxed and he let go of the duke’s arm.

Vallombreuse, who looked positively hideous at that moment, his face

pale to ghastliness and disfigured by the rage he felt, grasped the

hilt of his sword with the hand released by de Sigognac, and drew it

partly out of its scabbard, as if he meant to attack him, his eyes

flashing fire and every feature working in its frenzy—the baron

meanwhile standing perfectly motionless, quietly awaiting the onset.

But ere he had touched him the duke stopped short; a sudden thought had

extinguished his blazing fury like a douche of cold water; his

self-control returned, his face resumed its wonted expression, the

colour came to his lips, and his eyes showed the most icy disdain, the

most supreme contempt that it could be possible for one human being to

manifest for another. He had remembered just in time that he must not

so greatly demean himself as to cross swords with a person of no birth,

and an actor besides; all his pride revolted at the bare idea of such a

thing. An insult coming from a creature so low in the social scale

could not reach him. Does a gentleman declare war upon the mud that

bespatters him? However, it was not in his character to leave an

offence unpunished, no matter whence it proceeded, and stepping nearer

to de Sigognac he said, “You impertinent scoundrel, I will have every

bone in your body broken for you with cudgels, by my lackeys.”

“You’d better take care what you do, my lord,” answered the baron, in

the most tranquil tone and with the most careless air imaginable,

“you’d much better take care what you do! My bones are not so easily

broken, but cudgels may be. I do not put up with blows anywhere but on

the stage.”

“However insolent you may choose to be, you graceless rascal, you

cannot provoke me to do you so much honour as to attack you myself;

that is too high an ambition for such as you to realize,” said

Vallombreuse, scornfully.

“We will see about that, my lord duke,” de Sigognac replied; “it may

happen that I, having less pride than yourself, will fight you, and

conquer you, with my own hands.”

“I do not dispute with a masker,” said the duke shortly, taking

Vidalinc’s arm as if to depart.

“I will show you my face, duke, at a more fitting time and place,” de

Sigognac continued composedly, “and I think it will be still more

distasteful to you than my false nose. But enough for the present. I

hear the bell that summons me, and if I wait any longer here with you I

shall miss my entry at the proper moment.”

He turned on his heel and leisurely walked off, with admirable

nonchalance, leaving the haughty duke very much disconcerted, and at a

disadvantage, as indeed de Sigognac had cleverly managed that he should

be throughout the brief interview.

The comedians were charmed with his courage and coolness, but, knowing

his real rank, were not so much astonished as the other spectators of

this extraordinary scene, who were both shocked and amazed at such

temerity.

Isabelle was so terrified and excited by this fierce altercation that a

deathly pallor had overspread her troubled face, and Zerbine, who had

flown to her assistance, had to fetch some of her own rouge and bestow

it plentifully upon the colourless lips and cheeks before she could

obey the tyrant’s impatient call, again resounding through the

green-room.

When she tried to rise her trembling knees had nearly given way under

her, and but for the _soubrette’s_ kind support she must have fallen to

the floor. To have been the cause, though innocently, of a quarrel like

this was a terrible blow to poor Isabelle sweet, pure, modest child

that she was—for she knew that it is a dreadful thing for any woman to

have her name mixed up in such an affair, and shrank from the publicity

that could not fail to be given to it; besides, she loved de Sigognac

with fervour and devotion, though she had never acknowledged it to him,

and the thought of the danger to which he was exposed, of a secret

attack by the duke’s hired ruffians, or even of a duel with his

lordship himself, drove her well-nigh frantic with grief and terror.

In spite of this untoward incident, the rehearsal went on, and very

smoothly; the theatre was found to be all that they could desire, and

everybody acted with much spirit. Even poor, trembling Isabelle did

herself credit, though her heart was heavy within her; but for de

Sigognac’s dear sake, whose anxious glances she strove to meet with a

reassuring smile, she succeeded in controlling her emotion, and felt

inspired to do her very best. As to Captain Fracasse, excited by the

quarrel, he acted superbly. Zerbine surpassed herself. Shouts of

laughter and storms of clapping followed her animated words and

gestures. From one corner, near the orchestra, came such vigorous

bursts of applause, leading all the rest and lasting longer than any,

that at last Zerbine’s attention was attracted and her curiosity

excited.

Approaching the foot-lights, in such a way as to make it appear part of

her usual by-play, she peered over them and caught sight of her

marquis, beaming with smiles and flushed from his violent efforts in

her behalf.

“The marquis is here,” she managed to whisper to Blazius, who was

playing Pandolphe; “just look at him! how delighted he is, and how he

applauds me—till he is actually red in the face, the dear man! So he

admires my acting, does he? Well, he shall have a spicy specimen of it,

then.”

Zerbine kept her word, and, from that on to the end of the piece,

played with redoubled spirit. She was never so sparkling, so

bewitchingly coquettish, so charmingly mischievous before, and the

delighted marquis was more fascinated than ever. The new play, entitled

“Lygdamon et Lydias,” and written by a certain Georges de Scudéry (a

gentleman who, after having served with honour in the French Guards,

quitted the sword for the pen, which he wielded with equal success),

was next rehearsed, and highly approved by all—without a single

dissenting voice. Leander, who played the leading part of Lygdamon, was

really admirable in it, and entertained high hopes of the effect he

should produce upon the fair ladies of Poitiers and its environs.

But we will leave our comedians now, and follow the Duke of

Vallombreuse and his devoted friend Vidalinc.

Quite beside himself with rage, the young duke, after the scene in the

green-room in which he had played so unsatisfactory a part to himself,

returned to his own home and there raved to Vidalinc about his revenge,

threatening the insolent captain with all manner of punishments, and

going on like a madman. His friend tried in vain to soothe him.

He rushed wildly around the room, wringing his hands, kicking the

furniture about right and left, upsetting tables and arm-chairs, and

finally, seizing a large Japanese vase, very curious and costly, threw

it violently on the floor, where it broke into a thousand pieces.

“Oh!” he shrieked, “if I could only smash that abominable blackguard

like this vase, trample him under foot as I do this debris, and then

have the remains of him swept up and thrown out into the dust-heap,

where he belongs. A miserable scoundrel, that dares to interpose

between me, the Duke of Vallombreuse, and the object of my desires! If

he were only a gentleman I would fight him, on foot or on horseback,

with swords, daggers, pistols, anything in the shape of a weapon, until

I had him down, with my foot on his breast, and could spit into the

face of his corpse.”

“Perhaps he is one,” said Vidalinc; “his audacious defiance looks like

it. You remember what Maître Bilot told you about Isabelle’s favoured

lover? This must be the one, judging by his jealousy of you, and the

agitation of the girl.”

“Do you really mean what you say?” cried Vallombreuse, contemptuously.

“What! a man of birth and condition mingle voluntarily and on terms of

equality with these low buffoons of actors, paint his nose red, and

strut about the stage, receiving cuffs and kicks from everybody? Oh no,

Vidalinc, the thing is impossible.”

“But just remember,” persisted the chevalier, “that mighty Jove himself

resorted to the expedient of adopting the shapes of various beasts, as

well as birds, in his terrestrial love affairs, which was surely much

more derogatory to the majesty of the king of the gods than to play in

a comedy is to the dignity of a gentleman.”

“Never mind,” said the duke, as he rang a small hand bell sharply; “be

he what he may, I intend first to have the scamp well punished in his

character of play-actor; even though I should be obliged to chastise

the gentleman afterward, if there prove to be one hidden behind that

ridiculous mask—which idea I cannot credit.”

“If there be one! There’s no doubt of it, I tell you,” rejoined his

friend, with an air of conviction. “The more I think of it, the more

positive I am of it. Why, his eyes shone like stars under his

overhanging false eye-brows, and in spite of his absurd pasteboard nose

he had a grand, majestic air about him that was very imposing, and

would be utterly impossible to a low-born man.”

“Well, so much the better,” said Vallombreuse; “for if you are right, I

can make his punishment twofold.”

Meantime a servant, in rich livery, had entered, and after bowing low

stood as motionless as a statue, with one hand on the knob of the door,

awaiting his master’s orders; which were presently given, as follows:

“Go and call up Basque, Azolan, Mérindol, and Labriche, if they have

gone to bed; tell them to arm themselves with stout cudgels and go down

to the tennis-court, find a dark corner near by and wait there, until

the players come out, for a certain Captain Fracasse. They are to fall

upon him and beat him until they leave him for dead upon the pavement,

but to be careful not to kill him outright—it might be thought that I

was afraid of him if they did, you know,” in an aside to Vidalinc.

“I will be responsible for the consequences; and with every blow they

are to cry, ‘This is from the Duke of Vallombreuse,’ so that he may

understand plainly what it means.”

This order, though of so savage and fierce a nature, did not seem to

surprise the lackey, who, as he retired, assured his lordship, with an

unmoved countenance and another low bow, that his commands should be

immediately obeyed.

“I am sorry,” said Vidalinc, after the servant had closed the door

behind him, “that you mean to treat this man so roughly, for after all

he showed a spirit superior to his position, and becoming a gentleman.

Suppose you let me go and pick a quarrel with him, and kill him for you

in a duel. All blood is red when it is shed, the lowly as well as the

lofty, though they do pretend that the blood of the nobles is blue. I

come of a good and ancient family, if not so high in rank as yours, and

I have no fear of belittling myself in this affair. Only say the word,

and I will go this instant, for this histrionic captain is, it seems to

me, more worthy of the sword of a gentleman than the cudgels of your

hired ruffians.”

“I thank you heartily for this offer,” answered the duke, “which proves

your faithful devotion to me and my interests, but I cannot accept it.

That low scoundrel has dared to lay hands upon me, and he must expiate

his crime in the most ignominious way. Should he prove to be a

gentleman, he will be able to find redress. I never fail to respond, as

you know, when there is question of settling a matter by the sword.”

“As you please, my lord duke,” said Vidalinc, stretching out his legs

lazily and putting his feet on the fender, with the air of a man who

can do no more, but must stand aside and let things take their own

course. “By the way, do you know that that Serafina is charming? I paid

her several compliments, which were very graciously received; and more

than that, she has promised to allow me to call upon her, and appointed

the time. She is a very amiable as well as beautiful young woman.

Maître Bilot was perfectly correct in his statements to us.”

After which the two gentlemen awaited, in almost unbroken silence, the

return of the _four_ ruffians who had gone forth to chastise de

Sigognac.

CHAPTER IX.

A MÊLÉE AND A DUEL

The rehearsal was over, and the comedians were preparing to return to

their hotel; de Sigognac, expecting some sort of an assault on his way

through the deserted streets, did not lay aside Matamore’s big sword

with the rest of his costume. It was an excellent Spanish blade, very

long, and with a large basket hilt, which made a perfect protection for

the hand—altogether a weapon which, wielded by a brave man, was by no

means to be despised, and which could give, as well as parry, good hard

thrusts. Though scarcely able to inflict a mortal wound, as the point

and edge had been blunted, according to the usual custom of theatrical

sword owners, it would be, however, all that was requisite to defend

its wearer against the cudgels of the ruffians that the Duke of

Vallombreuse had despatched to administer his promised punishment.

Hérode, who also anticipated an attack upon de Sigognac, and was not

one to desert a friend when danger threatened, took the precaution to

arm himself with the big heavy club that was used to give the

signal—three loud raps—for the rising of the curtain, which made a very

formidable weapon, and would do good service in his strong hands.

“Captain,” said he to the baron as they quitted the tennis-court, “we

will let the women go on a little way in advance of us, under the

escort of Blazius and Leander, one of whom is too old, the other too

cowardly, to be of any service to us in case of need. And we don’t want

to have their fair charges terrified, and deafening us with their

shrieks. Scapin shall accompany us, for he knows a clever trick or two

for tripping a man up, that I have seen him perform admirably in

several wrestling bouts. He will lay one or two of our assailants flat

on their backs for us before they can turn round. In any event here is

my good club, to supplement your good sword.”

“Thanks, my brave friend Hérode,” answered de Sigognac, “your kind

offer is not one to be refused; but let us take our precautions not to

be surprised, though we are in force. We will march along in single

file, through the very middle of the street, so that these rogues,

lurking in dark corners, will have to emerge from their hiding places

to come out to us, and we shall be able to see them before they can

strike us. I will draw my sword, you brandish your club, and Scapin

must cut a pigeon wing, so as to make sure that his legs are supple and

in good working order. Now, forward march!”

He put himself at the head of the little column, and advanced

cautiously into the narrow street that led from the tennis-court to the

hotel of the _Armes de France_, which was very crooked, badly paved,

devoid of lamps, and capitally well calculated for an ambuscade. The

overhanging gable-ends on either side of the way made the darkness in

the street below them still more dense—a most favourable circumstance

for the ruffians lying in wait there. Not a single ray of light

streamed forth from the shut-up house whose inmates were presumably all

sleeping soundly in their comfortable beds, and there was no moon that

night. Basque, Azolan, Labriche and Mérindol had been waiting more than

half an hour for Captain Fracasse in this street, which they knew he

was obliged to pass through in returning to his hotel. They had

disposed themselves in pairs on opposite sides of the way, so that when

he was between them their clubs could all play upon him together, like

the hammers of the Cyclops on their great anvil. The passing of the

group of women, escorted by Blazius and Leander, none of whom perceived

them, had warned them of the approach of their victim, and they stood

awaiting his appearance, firmly grasping their cudgels in readiness to

pounce upon him; little dreaming of the reception in store for them—for

ordinarily, indeed one may say invariably, the poets, actors,

_bourgeois_, and such-like, whom the nobles condescended to have

cudgeled by their hired ruffians, employed expressly for that purpose,

took their chastisement meekly, and without attempting to make any

resistance. Despite the extreme darkness of the night, the baron, with

his penetrating eyes, made out the forms of the four villains lying in

wait for him, at some distance, and before he came up with them stopped

and made as if he meant to turn back—which ruse deceived them

completely—and fearing that their prey was about to escape them, they

rushed impetuously forth from their hiding places towards him. Azolan

was the first, closely followed by the others, and all crying at the

tops of their voices, “Kill! Kill! this for Captain Fracasse, from the

Duke of Vallombreuse.” Meantime de Sigognac had wound his large cloak

several times round his left arm for a shield, and receiving upon it

the first blow from Azolan’s cudgel, returned it with such a violent

lunge, full in his antagonist’s breast, that the miserable fellow went

over backward, with great force, right into the gutter running down the

middle of the street, with his head in the mud and his heels in the

air. If the point of the sword had not been blunted, it would

infallibly have gone through his body, and come out between his

shoulder-blades, leaving a dead man, instead of only a stunned one, on

the ground. Basque, in spite of his comrade’s disaster, advanced to the

charge bravely, but a furious blow on his head, with the flat of the

blade, sent him down like a shot, and made him see scores of stars,

though there was not one visible in the sky that night. The tyrant’s

club encountering Mérindol’s cudgel broke it short off, and the latter

finding himself disarmed, took to his heels; not however without

receiving a tremendous blow on the shoulder before he could get out of

Hérode’s reach. Scapin, for his part, had seized Labriche suddenly

round the waist from behind, pinning down his arms so that he could not

use his club at all, and raising him from the ground quickly, with one

dexterous movement tripped him up, and sent him rolling on the pavement

ten paces off, so violently that he was knocked senseless—the back of

his neck coming in contact with a projecting stone—and lay apparently

lifeless where he fell.

So the way was cleared, and the victory in this fierce encounter was

honourably gained by our hero and his two companions over the four

sturdy ruffians, who had never been defeated before. They were in a

sorry plight—Azolan and Basque creeping stealthily away, on their hands

and knees, trying under cover of the darkness to put themselves beyond

the reach of further danger; Labriche lying motionless, like a drunken

man, across the gutter, and Mérindol, less badly hurt, flying towards

home as fast as his legs could carry him. As he drew near the house,

however, he slackened his pace, for he dreaded the duke’s anger more

than Hérode’s club, and almost forgot, for the moment, the terrible

agony from his dislocated shoulder, from which the arm hung down

helpless and inert. Scarcely had he entered the outer door ere he was

summoned to the presence of the duke, who was all impatient to learn

the details of the tremendous thrashing that, he took it for granted,

they had given to Captain Fracasse. When Mérindol was ushered in,

frightened and embarrassed, trembling in every limb, not knowing what

to say or do, and suffering fearfully from his injured shoulder, he

paused at the threshold, and stood speechless and motionless, waiting

breathlessly for a word or gesture of encouragement from the duke, who

glared at him in silence.

“Well,” at length said the Chevalier de Vidalinc to the discomfited

Mérindol, seeing that Vallombreuse only stared at him savagely and did

not seem inclined to speak, “what news do you bring us? Bad, I am sure,

for you have by no means a triumphant air—very much the reverse,

indeed, I should say.”

“My lord, the duke, of course cannot doubt our zeal in striving to

execute his orders, to the best of our ability,” said Mérindol,

cringingly, “but this time we have had very bad luck.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the duke sharply, with an angry frown

and flashing eyes, before which the stout ruffian quailed. “There were

four of you! do you mean to tell me that, among you, you could not

succeed in thrashing this miserable play-actor?”

“That miserable play-actor, my lord,” Mérindol replied, plucking up a

little courage, “far exceeds in vigour and bravery the great Hercules

they tell us of. He fell upon us with such fury that in one instant he

had knocked Azolan and Basque down into the gutter. They fell under his

blows like pasteboard puppets—yet they are both strong men, and used to

hard knocks. Labriche was tripped up and cleverly thrown by another

actor, and fell with such force that he was completely stunned; the

back of his head has found out that the stones of Poitiers pavements

are harder than it is, poor fellow! As for me, my thick club was broken

short off by an immense stick in the hands of that giant they call

Hérode, and my shoulder so badly hurt that I sha’n’t have the use of my

arm here for a fortnight.”

“You are no better than so many calves, you pitiful, cowardly knaves!”

cried the Duke of Vallombreuse, in a perfect frenzy of rage. “Why, any

old woman could put you to rout with her distaff, and not half try. I

made a horrid mistake when I rescued you from the galleys and the

gallows, and took you into my service, believing that you were brave

rascals, and not afraid of anything or anybody on the face of the

globe. And now, answer me this: When you found that clubs would not do,

why didn’t you whip out your swords and have at him?”

“My lord had given us orders for a beating, not an assassination, and

we would not have dared to go beyond his commands.”

“Behold,” cried Vidalinc, laughing contemptuously, “behold a faithful,

exact and conscientious scoundrel whose obedience does not deviate so

much as a hair’s breadth from his lord’s commands. How delightful and

refreshing to find such purity and fidelity, combined with such rare

courage, in the character of a professional cut-throat! But now,

Vallombreuse, what do you think of all this? This chase of yours opens

well, and romantically, in a manner that must be immensely pleasing to

you, since you find the pursuit agreeable in proportion to its

difficulty, and the obstacles in the way constitute its greatest charms

for you. I ought to congratulate you, it seems to me. This Isabelle,

for an actress, is not easy of access; she dwells in a fortress,

without drawbridge or other means of entrance, and guarded, as we read

of in the history of ancient chivalry, by dragons breathing out flames

of fire and smoke. But here comes our routed army.”

Azolan, Basque, and Labriche, who had recovered from his swoon, now

presented themselves reluctantly at the door, and stood extending their

hands supplicatingly towards their master. They were a

miserable-looking set of wretches enough—very pale, fairly livid

indeed, haggard, dirty and blood-stained; for although they had only

contused wounds, the force of the blows had set the blood flowing from

their noses, and great red stains disfigured their hideous

countenances.

“Get to your kennel, ye hounds!” cried the duke, in a terrible voice,

being moved only to anger by the sight of this forlorn group of

supplicants. “I’m sure I don’t know why I have not ordered you all

soundly thrashed for your imbecility and cowardice. I shall send you my

surgeon to examine your wounds, and see whether the thumps you make

such a babyish outcry about really were as violent and overpowering as

you represent. If they were not, I will have you skinned alive, every

mother’s son of you, like the eels at Melun; and now, begone! out of my

sight, quick, you vile _canaille!_” The discomfited ruffians turned and

fled, thankful to make their escape, and forgetful for the moment of

their painful wounds and bruises; such abject terror did the young

duke’s anger inspire in the breasts of those hardened villains. When

the poor devils had disappeared, Vallombreuse threw himself down on a

heap of cushions, piled up on a low, broad divan beside the fire, and

fell into a revery that Vidalinc was careful not to break in upon. They

evidently were not pleasant thoughts that occupied him; dark,

tempestuous ones rather, judging by the expression of his handsome

face, as he lay back idly among the soft pillows, looking very

picturesque in the rich showy costume he still wore. He did not remain

there long. Only a short time had elapsed when he suddenly started up,

with a smothered imprecation, and bidding his friend an abrupt

good-night, retired to his own chamber, without touching the dainty

little supper that had just been brought in. Vidalinc sat down and

enjoyed it by himself, with perfect good humour, thinking meanwhile of

Serafina’s remarkable beauty and amiability, with which he was highly

charmed, and not neglecting to drink her health in the duke’s choice

wine ere he quitted the table, and, following his example, retired to

his own room, where he slept soundly, dreaming of Serafina, until

morning; while Vallombreuse, less fortunate, and still haunted by

disturbing thoughts, tossed restlessly, and turned from side to side,

courting sleep in vain, under the rich silken hangings drawn round his

luxurious bed.

When de Sigognac, the tyrant and Scapin reached the _Armes de France_,

after having overcome the serious obstacles in their way, they found

the others in a terrible state of alarm about them. In the stillness of

the night they had distinctly heard the loud cries of the duke’s

ruffians, and the noise of the fierce combat, and feared that their

poor friends were being murdered. Isabelle, nearly frantic in her

terror lest her lover should be overpowered and slain, tried to rush

back to him, never remembering that she would be more of a hindrance

than a help; but at the first step she had again almost fainted away,

and would have fallen upon the rough pavement but for Blazius and

Zerbine, who, each taking an arm, supported her between them the rest

of the way to the hotel When they reached it at last, she refused to go

to her own room, but waited with the others at the outer door for news

of their comrades, fearing the worst, yet prayerfully striving to hope

for the best. At sight of de Sigognac—who, alarmed at her extreme

pallor, hastened anxiously to her side—she impetuously raised her arms

to heaven, as a low cry of thanksgiving escaped her lips, and letting

them fall around his neck, for one moment hid her streaming eyes

against his shoulder; but quickly regaining her self-control, she

withdrew herself gently from the detaining arm that had fondly

encircled her slender, yielding form, and stepping back from him a

little, resumed with a strong effort her usual reserve and quiet

dignity.

“And you are not wounded or hurt?” she asked, in her sweetest tones,

her face glowing with happiness as she caught his reassuring gesture;

he could not speak yet for emotion. The clasp of her arms round his

neck had been like a glimpse of heaven to him a moment of divine

ecstasy. “Ah! if he could only snatch her to his breast and hold her

there forever,” he was thinking, “close to the heart that beat for her

alone,” as she continued: “If the slightest harm had befallen you,

because of me, I should have died of grief. But, oh! how imprudent you

were, to defy that handsome, wicked duke, who has the assurance and the

pride of Lucifer himself, for the sake of a poor, insignificant girl

like me. You were not reasonable, de Sigognac! Now that you are a

comedian, like the rest of us, you must learn to put up with certain

impertinences and annoyances, without attempting to resent them.”

“I never will,” said de Sigognac, finding his voice at last, “I swear

it, I never will permit an affront to be offered to the adorable

Isabelle in my presence even when I have on my player’s mask.”

“Well spoken, captain,” cried Hérode, “well spoken, and bravely. I

would not like to be the man to incur your wrath. By the powers above!

what a fierce reception you gave those rascals yonder. It was lucky for

them that poor Matamore’s sword had no edge. If it had been sharp and

pointed, you would have cleft them from head to heels, clean in two, as

the ancient knight-errants did the Saracens, and wicked enchanters.”

“Your club did as much execution as my sword, Hérode, and your

conscience need not reproach you, for they were not innocents that you

slaughtered this time.”

“No, indeed!” the tyrant rejoined, with a mighty laugh, “the flower of

the galleys these—the cream of gallows-birds.”

“Such jobs would scarcely be undertaken by any other class of fellows

you know,” de Sigognac said; “but we must not neglect to make Scapin’s

valiant deeds known, and praise them as they deserve. He fought and

conquered without the aid of any other arms than those that nature gave

him.”

Scapin, who was a natural buffoon, acknowledged this encomium with a

very low obeisance—his eyes cast down, his hand on his heart—and with

such an irresistibly comical affectation of modesty and embarrassment

that they all burst into a hearty laugh, which did them much good after

the intense excitement and alarm.

After this, as it was late, the comedians bade each other good-night,

and retired to their respective rooms; excepting de Sigognac, who

remained for a while in the court, walking slowly back and forth,

cogitating deeply. The actor was avenged, but the gentleman was not.

Must he then throw aside the mask that concealed his identity, proclaim

his real name, make a commotion, and run the risk of drawing down upon

his comrades the anger of a powerful nobleman? Prudence said no, but

honour said yes. The baron could not resist its imperious voice, and

the moment that he decided to obey it he directed his steps towards

Zerbine’s room.

He knocked gently at the door, which was opened cautiously, a very

little way at first, by a servant, who instantly admitted the

unexpected guest when he saw who it was.

The large room was brilliantly lighted, with many rose-coloured wax

candles in two handsome candelabra on a table covered with fine damask,

on which smoked a dainty supper. Game and various other delicacies were

there, most temptingly served. One crystal decanter, with sprigs of

gold scattered over its shining surface, was filled with wine rivalling

the ruby in depth and brilliancy of hue, while that in the other was

clear and yellow as a topaz. Only two places had been laid on this

festive board, and opposite Zerbine sat the Marquis de Bruyères, of

whom de Sigognac was in search. The _soubrette_ welcomed him warmly,

with a graceful mingling of the actress’s familiarity with her comrade

with her respect for the gentleman.

“It is very charming of you to come and join us here, in our cosy

little nest,” said the marquis to de Sigognac, with much cordiality,

“and we are right glad to welcome you. Jacques, lay a place for this

gentleman—you will sup with us?”

“I will accept your kind invitation,” de Sigognac replied; “but not for

the sake of the supper. I do not wish to interfere with your enjoyment,

and nothing is so disagreeable for those at table as a looker-on who is

not eating with them.”

The baron accordingly sat down in the arm-chair rolled up for him by

the servant, beside Zerbine and opposite the marquis, who helped him to

some of the partridge he had been carving, and filled his wine-glass

for him; all without asking any questions as to what brought him there,

or even hinting at it. But he felt sure that it must be something of

importance that had caused the usually reserved and retiring young

nobleman to take such a step as this.

“Do you like this red wine best or the other?” asked the marquis. “As

for me, I drink some of both, so that there may be no jealous feeling

between them.”

“I prefer the red wine, thank you,” de Sigognac said, with a smile,

“and will add a little water to it. I am very temperate by nature and

habit, and mingle a certain devotion to the nymphs with my worship at

the shrine of Bacchus, as the ancients had it. But it was not for

feasting and drinking that I was guilty of the indiscretion of

intruding upon you at this unseemly hour. Marquis, I have come to ask

of you a service that one gentleman never refuses to another. Mlle.

Zerbine has probably related to you something of what took place in the

green-room this evening. The Duke of Vallombreuse made an attempt to

lay hands upon Isabelle, under pretext of placing an _mouche_ for her,

and was guilty of an insolent, outrageous, and brutal action, unworthy

of a gentleman, which was not justified by any coquetry or advances on

the part of that young girl, who is as pure as she is modest and for

whom I feel the highest respect and esteem.”

“And she deserves it,” said Zerbine heartily, “every word you say of

her, as I, who know her thoroughly, can testify. I could not say

anything but good of her, even if I would.”

“I seized the duke’s arm, and stopped him before he had succeeded in

what he meant to do,” continued de Sigognac, after a grateful glance at

the _soubrette;_ “he was furiously angry, and assailed me with threats

and invectives, to which I replied with a mocking _sang-froid_, from

behind my stage mask. He declared he would have me thrashed by his

lackeys, and in effect, as I was coming back to this house, a little

while ago, four ruffians fell upon me in the dark, narrow street. A

couple of blows with the flat of my sword did for two of the rascals,

while Hérode and Scapin put the other two hors-de-combat in fine style.

Although the duke imagined that only a poor actor was concerned, yet as

there is also a gentleman in that actor’s skin, such an outrage cannot

be committed with impunity. _You_ know me, marquis, though up to the

present moment you have kindly and delicately respected my incognito,

for which I thank you. You know who and what my ancestors were, and can

certify that the family of de Sigognac has been noble for more than a

thousand years, and that not one who has borne the name has ever had a

blot on his scutcheon.”

“Baron de Sigognac,” said the marquis, addressing him for the first

time by his own name, “I will bear witness, upon my honour, before

whomsoever you may choose to name, to the antiquity and nobility of

your family. Palamède de Sigognac distinguished himself by wonderful

deeds of valour in the first crusade, to which he led a hundred lances,

equipped, and transported thither, at his own expense. That was at an

epoch when the ancestors of some of the proudest nobles of France

to-day were not even squires. He and Hugues de Bruyères, my own

ancestor, were warm friends, and slept in the same tent as brothers in

arms.”

At these glorious reminiscences de Sigognac raised his head proudly,

and held it high; he felt the pure blood of his ancestors throbbing in

his veins, and his heart beat tumultuously. Zerbine, who was watching

him, was surprised at the strange inward beauty—if the expression may

be allowed—that seemed to shine through the young baron’s ordinarily

sad countenance, and illuminate it. “These nobles,” she said to

herself, “are certainly a race by themselves; they look as if they had

sprung from the side of Jupiter, not been born into the world like

ordinary mortals. At the least word their pride is up in arms, and

transforms them, as it does the Baron de Sigognac now. If he should

make love to me, with eyes like those, I simply could not resist him; I

should have to throw over my marquis. Why, he fairly glows with

heroism; he is god-like.”

Meantime de Sigognac, in blissful ignorance of this ardent admiration,

which would have been so distasteful to him, was saying to the marquis,

“Such being your opinion of my family, you will not, I fancy, object to

carry a challenge from me to the Duke of Vallombreuse.”

“Assuredly I will do it for you,” answered the marquis, in a grave,

measured way, widely different from his habitual good-natured, easy

carelessness of manner and speech; “and, moreover, I offer my own

services as your second. To-morrow morning I will present myself at the

duke’s house in your behalf; there is one thing to be said in his

favour—that although he may be, in fact is, very insolent, he is no

coward, and he will no longer intrench himself behind his dignity when

he is made acquainted with your real rank. But enough of this subject

for the present; I will see you to-morrow morning in good season, and

we will not weary poor Zerbine any longer with our man’s talk of

affairs of honour. I can plainly see that she is doing her best to

suppress a yawn, and we would a great deal rather that a smile should

part her pretty red lips, and disclose to us the rows of pearls within.

Come, Zerbine, fill the Baron de Sigognac’s glass, and let us be merry

again.”

The _soubrette_ obeyed, and with as much grace and dexterity as if she

had been Hebe in person; everything that she attempted to do she did

well, this clever little actress.

The conversation became animated, and did not touch upon any other

grave subject, but was mainly about Zerbine’s own acting—the marquis

overwhelming her with compliments upon it, in which de Sigognac could

truthfully and sincerely join him, for the _soubrette_ had really shown

incomparable spirit, grace, and talent. They also talked of the

productions of M. de Scudéry—who was one of the most brilliant writers

of the day—which the marquis declared that he considered perfect, but

slightly soporific; adding that he, for his part, decidedly preferred

the Rodomontades of Captain Fracasse to Lygdamon et Lydias—he was a

gentleman of taste, the marquis!

As soon as he could do so without an actual breach of politeness, de

Sigognac took his leave, and retiring to his own chamber locked himself

in; then took an ancient sword out of the woollen case in which he kept

it to preserve it from rust—his father’s sword—which he had brought

with him from home, as a faithful friend and ally. He drew it slowly

out of the scabbard, kissing the hilt with fervent affection and

respect as he did so, for to him it was sacred. It was a handsome

weapon, richly, but not too profusely, ornamented—a sword for service,

not for show; its blade of bluish steel, upon which a few delicate

lines of gold were traced, bore the well-known mark of one of the most

celebrated armourers of Toledo. The young baron examined the edge

critically, drawing his fingers lightly over it, and then, resting the

point against the door, bent it nearly double to test its elasticity.

The noble blade stood the trial right valiantly, and there was no fear

of its betraying its master in the hour of need. Delighted to have it

in his hand again, and excited by the thought of what was in store for

it and himself, de Sigognac began to fence vigorously against the wall,

and to practise the various thrusts and passes that his faithful old

Pierre, who was a famous swordsman, had taught him at Castle Misery.

They had been in the habit of spending hours every day in these

lessons, glad of some active occupation, and the exercise had developed

the young baron’s frame, strengthened his muscles, and greatly

augmented his natural suppleness and agility. He was passionately fond

of and had thoroughly studied the noble art of fencing, and, while he

believed himself to be still only a scholar, had long been a master in

it—a proficient, such as is rarely to be found, even in the great

cities. A better instructor than old Pierre he could not have had—not

in Paris itself—and buried though he had been in the depths of the

country, entirely isolated, and deprived of all the usual advantages

enjoyed by young men of his rank, he yet had become, though perfectly

unconscious of it, a match for the most celebrated swordsmen in

France—that is to say, in the world—able to measure blades with the

best of them. He may not have had all the elegant finish, and the many

little airs and graces affected by the young sprigs of nobility and

polished men of fashion in their sword-play, but skilful indeed must be

the blade that could penetrate within the narrow circle of flashing

steel in which he intrenched himself. Finding, after a long combat with

an imaginary foe, that his hand had not lost its cunning, and satisfied

at length both with himself and with his sword, which he placed near

his bedside, de Sigognac was soon sleeping soundly, and as quietly as

if he had never even dreamed of sending a challenge to that lofty and

puissant nobleman, the Duke of Vallombreuse.

Isabelle meanwhile could not close her eyes, because of her anxiety

about the young baron. She knew that he would not allow the matter to

rest where it was, and she dreaded inexpressibly the consequences of a

quarrel with the duke; but the idea of endeavouring to prevent a duel

never even occurred to her. In those days affairs of honour were

regarded as sacred things, that women did not dream of interfering

with, or rendering more trying to their near and dear ones by tears and

lamentations, in anticipation of the danger to be incurred by them.

At nine o’clock the next morning, the Marquis de Bruyères was astir,

and went to look up de Sigognac, whom he found in his own room, in

order to regulate with him the conditions of the duel. The baron asked

him to take with him, in case of incredulity, or refusal of his

challenge, on the duke’s part, the old deeds and ancient parchments, to

which large seals were suspended, the commissions of various sorts with

royal signatures in faded ink, the genealogical tree of the de

Sigognacs, and in fact all his credentials, which he had brought away

from the château with him as his most precious treasures; for they were

indisputable witnesses to the nobility and antiquity of his house.

These valuable documents, with their strange old Gothic characters,

scarcely decipherable save by experts, were carefully wrapped up in a

piece of faded crimson silk, which looked as if it might have been part

of the very banner borne by Palamède de Sigognac at the head of his

hundred followers in the first crusade.

“I do not believe,” said the marquis, “that these credentials will be

necessary; my word should be sufficient; it has never yet been doubted.

However, as it is possible that this hot-headed young duke may persist

in recognising only Captain Fracasse in your person, I will let my

servant accompany me and carry them for me to his house, in case I

should deem it best to produce them.”

“You must do whatever you think proper and right,” de Sigognac

answered; “I have implicit confidence in your judgment, and leave my

honour in your hands, without a condition or reservation.”

“It will be safe with me, I do solemnly assure you,” said the Marquis

de Bruyères earnestly, “and we will have satisfaction yet from this

proud young nobleman, whose excessive insolence and outrageously

imperious ways are more than a little offensive to me, as well as to

many others. He is no better than the rest of us, whose blood is as

ancient and noble as his own, nor does his ducal coronet entitle him to

the superiority he arrogates to himself so disagreeably. But we won’t

talk any more about it—we must act now. Words are feminine, but actions

are masculine, and offended honour can only be appeased with blood, as

the old saying has it.”

Whereupon the marquis called his servant, consigned the precious

packet, with an admonition, to his care, and followed by him set off on

his mission of defiance. The duke, who had passed a restless, wakeful

night, and only fallen asleep towards morning, was not yet up when the

Marquis de Bruyères, upon reaching his house, told the servant who

admitted him to announce him immediately to his master. The valet was

aghast at the enormity of this demand, which was expressed in rather a

peremptory tone. What! disturb the duke! before he had called for him!

it would be as much as his life was worth to do it; he would as soon

venture unarmed into the cage of a furious lion, or the den of a royal

tiger. The duke was always more or less surly and ill-tempered on first

waking in the morning, even when he had gone to bed in a good humour,

as his servants knew to their cost.

“Your lordship had much better wait a little while, or call again later

in the day,” said the valet persuasively, in answer to the marquis. “My

lord, the duke, has not summoned me yet, and I would not dare—”

“Go this instant to your master and announce the Marquis de Bruyères,”

interrupted that gentleman, in loud, angry tones, “or I will force the

door and admit myself to his presence. I _must_ speak to him, and that

at once, on important business, in which your master’s honour is

involved.”

“Ah! that makes a difference,” said the servant, promptly, “why didn’t

your lordship mention it in the first place? I will go and tell my

lord, the duke, forthwith; he went to bed in such a furious,

blood-thirsty mood last night that I am sure he will be enchanted at

the prospect of a duel this morning—delighted to have a pretext for

fighting.”

And the man went off with a resolute air, after respectfully begging

the marquis to be good enough to wait a few minutes. At the noise he

made in opening the door of his master’s bedroom, though he endeavoured

to do it as softly as possible, Vallombreuse, who was only dozing,

started up in bed, broad awake, and looked round fiercely for something

to throw at his head.

“What the devil do you mean by this?” he cried savagely. “Haven’t I

ordered you never to come in here until I called for you? You shall

have a hundred lashes for this, you scoundrel, I promise you; and you

needn’t whine and beg for mercy either, for you’ll get none from me.

I’d like to know how I am to go to sleep again now?”

“My lord may have his faithful servant lashed to death, if it so please

his lordship,” answered the valet, with abject respect, “but though I

have dared to transgress my lord’s orders, it is not without a good

reason. His lordship, the Marquis de Bruyères, is below, asking to

speak with my lord, the duke, on important business, relating to an

affair of honour, and I know that my lord never denies himself to any

gentleman on such occasions, but always receives visits of that sort,

at any time of day or night.”

“The Marquis de Bruyères!” said the duke, surprised, “have I any

quarrel with him? I don’t recollect a difference between us ever; and

besides, it’s an age since I’ve seen him. Perhaps he imagines that I

want to steal his dear Zerbine’s heart away from him; lovers are always

fancying that everybody else is enamoured of their own particular

favourites. Here, Picard, give me my dressing-gown, and draw those

curtains round the bed, so as to hide its disorder; make haste about

it, do you hear? we must not keep the worthy marquis waiting another

minute.”

Picard bustled about, and brought to his master a magnificent

dressing-gown-made, after the Venetian fashion, of rich stuff, with

arabesques of black velvet on a gold ground—which he slipped on, and

tied round the waist with a superb cord and tassels; then, seating

himself in an easychair, told Picard to admit his early visitor.

“Good morning, my dear marquis,” said the young duke smilingly, half

rising to salute his guest as he entered. “I am very glad to see you,

whatever your errand may be. Picard, a chair for his lordship! Excuse

me, I pray you, for receiving you so unceremoniously here in my

bedroom, which is still in disorder, and do not look upon it as a lack

of civility, but rather as a mark of my regard for you. Picard said

that you wished to see me immediately.”

“I must beg you to pardon _me_, my dear duke,” the marquis hastened to

reply, “for insisting so strenuously upon disturbing your repose, and

cutting short perhaps some delicious dream; but I am charged to see you

upon a mission, which, among gentlemen, will not brook delay.”

“You excite my curiosity to the highest degree,” said Vallombreuse,

“and I cannot even imagine what this urgent business may be about.”

“I suppose it is not unlikely, my lord,” rejoined the marquis, “that

you have forgotten certain occurrences that took place last evening.

Such trifling matters are not apt to make a very deep impression, so

with your permission I will recall them to your mind. In the so-called

green-room, down at the tennis-court, you deigned to honour with your

particular notice a young person, Isabelle by name, and with a

playfulness that I, for my part, do not consider criminal, you

endeavoured to place an _assassine_ for her, just above her white

bosom, complimenting her upon its fairness as you did so. This

proceeding, which I do not criticise, greatly shocked and incensed a

certain actor standing by, called Captain Fracasse, who rushed forward

and seized your arm.”

“Marquis, you are the most faithful and conscientious of

historiographers,” interrupted Vallombreuse. “That is all true, every

word of it, and to finish the narrative I will add that I promised the

rascal, who was as insolent as a noble, a sound thrashing at the hands

of my lackeys; the most appropriate chastisement I could think of, for

a low fellow of that sort.”

“No one can blame you for that, my dear duke, for there is certainly no

very great harm in having a play-actor—or writer either, for that

matter—thoroughly thrashed, if he has had the presumption to offend,”

said the marquis, with a contemptuous shrug; “such cattle are not worth

the value of the sticks broken over their backs. But this is a

different case altogether. Under the mask of Captain Fracasse—who, by

the way, routed your ruffians in superb style—is the Baron de Sigognac;

a nobleman of the old school, the head of one of the best families we

have in Gascony; one that has been above reproach for many centuries.”

“What the devil is he doing in this troupe of strolling players, pray?”

asked the Duke of Vallombreuse, with some heat, toying nervously with

the cord and tassels of his dressing-gown as he spoke. “Could I be

expected to divine that there was a de Sigognac hidden under that

grotesque costume, and behind that absurd false nose?”

“As to your first question,” the marquis replied, “I can answer it in

one word—Isabelle. Between ourselves, I believe that the young baron is

desperately in love with her. Indeed, he makes no secret of that fact;

and, not having been able to induce her to remain with him in his

château, he has joined the troupe of which she is a member, in order to

pursue his love affair. You certainly ought not to find this gallant

proceeding in bad taste, since you also admire the fair object of his

pursuit.”

“No; I admit all that you say. But you, in your turn, must acknowledge

that I could not be cognisant of this extraordinary romance by

inspiration, and that the action of Captain Fracasse was impertinent.”

“Impertinent for an actor, I grant you,” said the marquis, “but

perfectly natural, indeed inevitable, for a gentleman, resenting

unauthorized attentions to his mistress, and angry at an affront

offered to her. Now Captain Fracasse throws aside his mask, and as

Baron de Sigognac sends you by me his challenge to fight a duel, and

demands redress in that way for the insult you have offered him.”

“But who is to guarantee me that this pretended Baron de Sigognac, who

actually appears on the stage before the public with a company of low

buffoons as one of themselves, is not a vulgar, intriguing rascal,

usurping an honourable name, in the hope of obtaining the honour of

crossing swords with the Duke of Vallombreuse?”

“Duke,” said the Marquis de Bruyères, with much dignity, and some

severity of tone, “_I_ would not serve as second to any man who was not

of noble birth, and of honourable character. I know the Baron de

Sigognac well. His château is only a few leagues from my estate. _I_

will be his guarantee. Besides, if you still persist in entertaining

any doubts with regard to his real rank, I have here with me all the

proofs necessary to convince you of his right to the ancient and

distinguished name of Sigognac. Will you permit me to call in my

servant, who is waiting in the antechamber? He will give you all those

documents, for which I am personally responsible.”

“There is no need,” Vallombreuse replied courteously; “your word is

sufficient. I accept his challenge. My friend, the Chevalier de

Vidalinc, who is my guest at present, will be my second; will you be

good enough to consult with him as to the necessary arrangements? I

will agree to anything you may propose—fight him when and where you

please, and with any weapons he likes best; though I will confess that

I should like to see whether the Baron de Sigognac can defend himself

against a gentleman’s sword as successfully as Captain Fracasse did

against my lackeys’ cudgels. The charming Isabelle shall crown the

conqueror in this tournament, as the fair ladies crowned the victorious

knights in the grand old days of chivalry. But now allow me to retire

and finish my toilet. The Chevalier de Vidalinc will be with you

directly. I kiss your hand, valiant marquis, as our Spanish neighbours

say.”

With these courteous words the Duke of Vallombreuse bowed with studied

deference and politeness to his noble guest, and lifting the heavy

_portière_ of tapestry that hung over the door opening into his

dressing-room, passed through it and vanished. But a very few moments

had elapsed when the Chevalier de Vidalinc joined the marquis, and they

lost no time in coming to an understanding as to the conditions of the

duel. As a matter of course, they selected swords—the gentleman’s

natural weapon—and the meeting was fixed for the following morning,

early; as de Sigognac, with his wonted consideration for his humble

comrades, did not wish to fight that same day, and run the risk of

interfering with the programme Hérode had announced for the evening, in

case of his being killed or wounded. The rendezvous was at a certain

spot in a field outside the walls of the town, which was level, smooth,

well sheltered from observation, and advantageous in every way—being

the favourite place of resort for such hostile meetings among the

duellists of Poitiers.

The Marquis de Bruyères returned straightway to the _Armes de France_,

and rendered an account of the success of his mission to de Sigognac;

who thanked him warmly for his services, and felt greatly relieved, now

that he was assured of having the opportunity to resent, as a gentleman

should do, the affront offered to his adored Isabelle.

The representation was to begin very early that evening, and all day

the town crier went about through the streets, beating his drum

lustily, and, whenever he had gathered a curious crowd around him,

stopping and announcing the “great attractions—offered for that evening

by Hérode’s celebrated troupe.” Immense placards were posted upon the

walls of the tennis-court and at the entrance of the _Armes de France_,

also announcing, in huge, bright-coloured capitals, which reflected

great credit on Scapin, who was the calligraphist of the troupe, the

new play of “Lygdamon et Lydias,” and the Rodomontades of Captain

Fracasse. Long before the hour designated an eager crowd had assembled

in the street in front of the theatre, and when the doors were opened

poured in, like a torrent that has burst its bounds, and threatened to

sweep everything before them. Order was quickly restored, however,

within, and “the nobility and gentry of Poitiers” soon began to arrive

in rapid succession. Titled dames, in their sedan chairs, carried by

liveried servants, alighted amid much bowing and flourishing of

attendant gallants. Gentlemen from the environs came riding in,

followed by mounted grooms who led away their masters’ horses or mules.

Grand, clumsy old carriages, vast and roomy, with much tarnished

gildings and many faded decorations about them, and with coats-of-arms

emblazoned on their panels, rolled slowly up, and out of them, as out

of Noah’s ark, issued all sorts of odd-looking pairs, and curious

specimens of provincial grandeur; most of them resplendent in the

strange fashions of a bygone day, yet apparently well satisfied with

the elegance of their appearance. The house was literally packed, until

there was not room left for another human being, be he never so

slender. On each side of the stage was a row of arm-chairs, intended

for distinguished spectators, according to the custom of the times, and

there sat the young Duke of Vallombreuse, looking exceedingly handsome,

in a very becoming suit of black velvet, elaborately trimmed with jet,

and with a great deal of exquisite lace about it. Beside him was his

faithful friend, the Chevalier de Vidalinc, who wore a superb costume

of dark green satin, richly ornamented with gold. As to the Marquis de

Bruyères, he had not claimed his seat among the notables, but was

snugly ensconced in his usual place—a retired corner near the

orchestra—whence he could applaud his charming Zerbine to his heart’s

content, without making himself too conspicuous. In the boxes were the

fine ladies, in full dress, settling themselves to their satisfaction

with much rustling of silks, fluttering of fans, whispering and

laughing. Although their finery was rather old-fashioned, the general

effect was exceedingly brilliant, and the display of magnificent

jewels—family heirlooms—was fairly dazzling. Such flashing of superb

diamonds on white bosoms and in dark tresses; such strings of large,

lustrous pearls round fair necks, and twined amid sunny curls; such

rubies and sapphires, with their radiant surroundings of brilliants;

such thick, heavy chains of virgin gold, of curious and beautiful

workmanship; such priceless laces, yellow with age, of just that

much-desired tint which is creamy at night; such superb old brocades,

stiff and rich enough to stand alone; and best of all, such sweet,

sparkling, young faces, as were to be seen here and there in this

aristocratic circle. A few of the ladies, not wishing to be known had

kept on their little black velvet masks, though they did not prevent

their being recognised, spoken of by name, and commented on with great

freedom by the plebeian crowd in the pit. One lady, however, who was

very carefully masked, and attended only by a maid, baffled the

curiosity of all observers. She sat a little back in her box, so that

the full blaze of light should not fall upon her, and a large black

lace veil, which was loosely fastened under her chin, covered her head

so effectually that it was impossible to make out even the colour of

her hair. Her dress was rich and elegant in the extreme, but sombre in

hue, and in her hand she held a handsome fan made of black feathers,

with a tiny looking-glass in the centre. A great many curious glances

were directed at her, which manifestly made her uneasy, and she shrank

still farther back in her box to avoid them; but the orchestra soon

struck up a merry tune, and attracted all eyes and thoughts to the

curtain, which was about to rise, so that the mysterious fair one was

left to her enjoyment of the animated scene in peace. They began with

“Lygdamon et Lydias,” in which Leander, who played the principal part,

and wore a most becoming new costume, was quite overwhelmingly

handsome. His appearance was greeted by a murmur of admiration and a

great whispering among the ladies, while one unsophisticated young

creature, just emancipated from her convent-school, exclaimed

rapturously, aloud, “Oh! how charming he is!” for which shocking

indiscretion she received a severe reprimand from her horrified mama,

that made her retire into the darkest corner of the box, covered with

blushes and confusion. Yet the poor girl had only innocently given

expression to the secret thought of every woman in the audience, her

own dignified mother included; for, really, Leander was delightfully,

irresistibly handsome as Lygdamon—a perfect Apollo, in the eyes of

those provincial dames. But by far the most agitated of them all was

the masked beauty; whose heaving bosom, trembling hand—betrayed by the

fan it held—and eager attitude—leaning breathlessly forward and

intently watching Leander’s every movement—would inevitably have borne

witness to her great and absorbing interest in him, if anybody had been

observing her to mark her emotion; but fortunately for her all eyes

were turned upon the stage, so she had time to recover her composure.

Leander was surpassing himself in his acting that night, yet even then

he did not neglect to gaze searchingly round the circle of his fair

admirers, trying to select the titled dames, and decide which one among

them he should favour with his most languishing glances. As he

scrutinized one after another, his eyes finally reached the masked

lady, and at once his curiosity was on the _qui vive_—here was

assuredly something promising at last; he was convinced that the richly

dressed, graceful _incognita_ was a victim to his own irresistible

charms, and he directed a long, eloquent, passionate look full at her,

to indicate that she was understood. To his delight—his rapturous,

ecstatic delight—she answered his appealing glance by a very slight

bend of the head, which was full of significance, as if she would thank

him for his penetration. Being thus happily brought _en rapport_,

frequent glances were exchanged throughout the play, and even little

signals also, between the hero on the stage and the lady in her box.

Leander was an adept in that sort of thing, and could so modulate his

voice and use his really fine eyes in making an impassioned declaration

of love to the heroine of the play, that the fair object of his

admiration in the audience would believe that it was addressed

exclusively to herself. Inspired by this new flame, he acted with so

much spirit and animation that he was rewarded with round after round

of applause; which he had the art to make the masked lady understand he

valued less than the faintest mark of approbation and favour from her.

After “Lygdamon et Lydias” came the Rodomontades of Captain Fracasse,

which met with its accustomed success. Isabelle was rendered very

uneasy by the close proximity of the Duke of Vallombreuse, dreading

some act of insolence on his part; but her fears were needless, for he

studiously refrained from annoying her in any way—even by staring at

her too fixedly. He was moderate in his applause, and quietly

attentive, as he sat in a careless attitude in his arm-chair on the

stage throughout the piece. His lip curled scornfully sometimes when

Captain Fracasse was receiving the shower of blows and abuse that fell

to his share, and his whole countenance was expressive of the most

lofty disdain, but that was all; for though violent and impetuous by

nature, the young duke was too much of a gentleman—once his first fury

passed—to transgress the rules of courtesy in any way; and more

especially towards an adversary with whom he was to fight on the

morrow—until then hostilities were suspended, and he religiously

observed the truce.

The masked lady quietly withdrew a little before the end of the second

piece, in order to avoid mingling with the crowd, and also to be able

to regain her chair, which awaited her close at hand, unobserved; her

disappearance mightily disturbed Leander, who was furtively watching

the movements of the mysterious unknown. The moment he was free, almost

before the curtain had fallen, he threw a large cloak around him to

conceal his theatrical costume, and rushed towards the outer door in

pursuit of her. The slender thread that bound them together would be

broken past mending he feared if he did not find her, and it would be

too horrible to lose sight of this radiant creature—as he styled her to

himself—before he had been able to profit by the pronounced marks of

favour she had bestowed upon him so lavishly during the evening. But

when he reached the street, all out of breath from his frantic efforts

in dashing through the crowd, and bustling people right and left

regardless of everything but the object he had in view, there was

nothing to be seen of her; she had vanished, and left not a trace

behind. Leander reproached himself bitterly with his own folly in not

having endeavoured to exchange a few words with his lost divinity in

the brief interval between the two plays, and called himself every hard

name he could think of; as we are all apt to do in moments of vexation.

But while he still stood gazing disconsolately in the direction that

she must have taken, a little page, dressed in a dark brown livery, and

with his cap pulled down over his eyes, suddenly appeared beside him,

and accosted him politely in a high childish treble, which he vainly

strove to render more manly. “Are you M. Leander? the one who played

Lygdamon a while ago?”

“Yes, I am,” answered Leander, amused at the pretentious airs of his

small interlocutor, “and pray what can I do for you, my little man?”

“Oh! nothing for me, thank you,” said the page, with a significant

smile, “only I am charged to deliver a message to you—if you are

disposed to hear it—from the lady of the mask.”

“From the lady of the mask!” cried Leander. “Oh I tell me quickly what

it is; I am dying to hear it.”

“Well, here it is, then, word for word,” said the tiny page jauntily.

“If Lygdamon is as brave as he is gallant, he will go at midnight to

the open square in front of the church, where he will find a carriage

awaiting him; he will enter it without question, as without fear, and

go whither it will take him.”

Before the astonished Leander had time to answer, the page had

disappeared in the crowd, leaving him in great perplexity, for if his

heart beat high with joy at the idea of a romantic adventure, his

shoulders still reminded him painfully of the beating he had received

in a certain park at dead of night, and he remembered with a groan how

he had been lured on to his own undoing. Was this another snare spread

for him by some envious wretch who begrudged him his brilliant success

that evening, and was jealous of the marked favour he had found in the

eyes of the fair ladies of Poitiers? Should he encounter some furious

husband at the rendezvous, sword in hand, ready to fall upon him and

run him through the body? These thoughts chilled his ardour, and had

nearly caused him to disregard entirely the page’s mysterious message.

Yet, if he did not profit by this tempting opportunity, which looked so

promising, he might make a terrible mistake; and, if he failed to go,

would not the lady of the mask suspect him of cowardice, and be

justified in so doing? This thought was insupportable to the gallant

Leander, and he decided to venture, though low be it spoken—in fear and

trembling. He hastened back to the hotel, scarcely touched the

substantial supper provided for the comedians—his appetite lost in his

intense excitement—and retiring to his own chamber made an elaborate

toilet; curling and perfuming his hair and mustache, and sparing no

pains to make himself acceptable to the lovely lady of the mask. He

armed himself with a dagger and a sword, though he did not know how to

use either; but he thought that the mere sight of them might inspire

awe.

When he was all ready at last, he drew his broad felt hat well down

over his eyes, threw the corner of his cloak over his shoulder, in

Spanish fashion, so as to conceal the lower part of his face, and crept

stealthily out of the hotel—for once being lucky enough to escape the

observation of his wily tormentor, Scapin, who was at that moment

snoring his loudest in his own room at the other end of the house.

The streets had long been empty and deserted, for the good people of

the ancient and respectable town of Poitiers go early to bed. Leander

did not meet a living creature, excepting a few forlorn, homeless cats,

prowling about and bewailing themselves in a melancholy way, that fled

before him, and vanished round dark corners or in shadowy doorways. Our

gallant reached the open square designated by the little page just as

the last stroke of twelve was vibrating in the still night air. It gave

him a shudder; a superstitious sensation of horror took possession of

him, and he felt as if he had heard the tolling of his own funeral

bell. For an instant he was on the point of rushing back, and seeking

quiet, safe repose in his comfortable bed at the _Armes de France_, but

was arrested by the sight of the carriage standing there waiting for

him, with the tiny page himself in attendance, perched on the step and

holding the door open for him. So he was obliged to go on—for few

people in this strange world of ours have the courage to be cowardly

before witnesses—and instinctively acting a part, he advanced with a

deliberate and dignified bearing, that gave no evidence of the inward

fear and agitation that had set his heart beating as if it would burst

out of his breast, and sent strong shivers over him from his head to

his feet. Scarcely had he taken his seat in the carriage when the

coachman touched his horses with the whip, and they were off at a good

round pace; while he was in utter darkness, and did not even know which

way they went, as the leathern curtains were carefully drawn down, so

that nothing could be seen from within, or without. The small page

remained at his post on the carriage step, but spoke never a word, and

Leander could not with decency question him, much as he would have

liked to do so. He knew that his surroundings were luxurious, for his

exploring fingers told him that the soft, yielding cushions, upon which

he was resting, were covered with velvet, and his feet sank into a

thick, rich rug, while the vague, delicious perfume, that seemed to

surround and caress him, soothed his ruffled feelings, and filled his

mind with rapturous visions of bliss. He tried in vain to divine who it

could be that had sent to fetch him in this delightfully mysterious

way, and became more curious than ever, and also rather uneasy again,

when he felt that the carriage had quitted the paved streets of the

town, and was rolling smoothly and rapidly along over a country road.

At last it stopped, the little page jumped down and flung the door wide

open, and Leander, alighting, found himself confronted by a high, dark

wall, which seemed to inclose a park, or garden; but he did not

perceive a wooden door close at hand until his small companion, pushing

back a rusty bolt, proceeded to open it, with considerable difficulty,

and admitted him into what was apparently a thick wood.

“Take hold of my hand,” said the page patronizingly to Leander, “so

that I can guide you; it is too dark for you to be able to make out the

path through this labyrinth of trees.”

Leander obeyed, and both walked cautiously forward, feeling their way

as they wound in and out among the trees, and treading the crackling,

dry leaves, strewn thickly upon the ground, under their feet. Emerging

from the wood at last, they came upon a garden, laid out in the usual

style, with rows of box bordering the angular flower beds, and with yew

trees, cut into pyramids, at regular intervals; which, just perceptible

in the darkness, looked like sentinels posted on their way—a shocking

sight for the poor timid actor, who trembled in every limb. They passed

them all, however, unchallenged, and ascended some stone steps leading

up to a terrace, on which stood a small country house—a sort of

pavilion, with a dome, and little turrets at the corners. The place

seemed quite deserted, save for a subdued glimmer of light from one

large window, which the thick crimson silk curtains within could not

entirely conceal. At this reassuring sight Leander dismissed all fear

from his mind, and gave himself up to the most blissful anticipations.

He was in a seventh heaven of delight; his feet seemed to spurn the

earth; he would have flown into the presence of the waiting angel

within if he had but known the way. How he wished, in this moment of

glory and triumph, that Scapin, his mortal enemy and merciless

tormentor, could see him. The tiny page stepped on before him, and

after opening a large glass door and showing him into a spacious

apartment, furnished with great luxury and elegance, retired and left

him alone, without a word. The vaulted ceiling—which was the interior

of the dome seen from without—was painted to represent a light blue

sky, in which small rosy clouds were floating, and bewitching little

Loves flying about in all sorts of graceful attitudes, while the walls

were hung with beautiful tapestry. The cabinets, inlaid with exquisite

Florentine mosaics and filled with many rare and curious objects of

virtu, the round table covered with a superb Turkish cloth, the large,

luxurious easy-chairs, the vases of priceless porcelain filled with

fragrant flowers, all testified to the wealth and fastidious taste of

their owner. The richly gilded candelabra, of many branches, holding

clusters of wax candles, which shed their soft, mellow light on all

this magnificence, were upheld by sculptured arms and hands in black

marble, to represent a negro’s, issuing from fantastic white marble

sleeves; as if the sable attendants were standing without the room, and

had passed their arms through apertures in the wall.

Leander, dazzled by so much splendour, did not at first perceive that

there was no one awaiting him in this beautiful apartment, but when he

had recovered from his first feeling of astonishment, and realized that

he was alone, he proceeded to take off his cloak and lay it, with his

hat and sword, on a chair in one corner, after which he deliberately

rearranged his luxuriant ringlets in front of a Venetian mirror, and

then, assuming his most graceful and telling pose, began pouring forth

in dulcet tones the following monologue: “But where, oh! where, is the

divinity of this Paradise? Here is the temple indeed, but I see not the

goddess. When, oh! when, will she deign to emerge from the cloud that

veils her perfect form, and reveal herself to the adoring eyes, that

wait so impatiently to behold her?” rolling the said organs of vision

about in the most effective manner by way of illustration.

Just at that moment, as if in response to this eloquent appeal, the

crimson silk hanging, which fell in front of a door that Leander had

not noticed, was pushed aside, and the lady he had come to seek stood

before him; with the little black velvet mask still over her face, to

the great disappointment and discomfiture of her expectant suitor. “Can

it be possible that she is ugly?” he thought to himself; “this

obstinate clinging to the mask alarms me.” But his uncertainty was of

short duration, for the lady, advancing to the centre of the room,

where Leander stood respectfully awaiting her pleasure, untied the

strings of the mask, took it off, and threw it down on the table,

disclosing a rather pretty face, with tolerably regular features,

large, brilliant, brown eyes, and smiling red lips. Her rich masses of

dark hair were elaborately dressed, with one long curl hanging down

upon her neck, and enhancing its whiteness by contrast; the uncovered

shoulders were plump and shapely, and the full, snowy bosom rose and

fell tumultuously under the cloud of beautifully fine lace that veiled,

not concealed, its voluptuous curves.

“Mme. la Marquise de Bruyères!” cried Leander, astonished to the

highest degree, and not a little agitated, as the remembrance of his

last, and first, attempt to meet her, and what he had found in her

place, rushed back upon him; “can it be possible? am I dreaming? or may

I dare to believe in such unhoped-for, transcendent happiness?”

“Yes; you are not mistaken, my dear friend,” said she, “I am indeed the

Marquise de Bruyères, and recognised, I trust, by your heart as well as

your eyes.”

“Ah! but too well,” Leander replied, in thrilling tones. “Your adored

image is cherished there, traced in living lines of light; I have only

to look into that devoted, faithful heart, to see and worship your

beauteous form, endowed with every earthly grace, and radiant with

every heavenly perfection.”

“I thank you,” said the _marquise_, “for having retained such a kind

and tender remembrance of me; it proves that yours is a noble,

magnanimous soul. You had every reason to think me cruel, ungrateful,

false—when, alas! my poor heart in reality is but too susceptible, and

I was far from being insensible to the passionate admiration you so

gracefully testified for me. Your letter addressed to me did not reach

my hands, but unfortunately fell into those of the marquis—through the

heartless treachery of the faithless maid to whom it was intrusted—and

he sent you the answer which so cruelly deceived you, my poor Leander!

Some time after he showed me that letter, laughing heartily over what

he was wicked enough to call a capital joke; that letter, in every line

of which the purest, most impassioned love shone so brightly, and

filled my heart with joy, despite his ridicule and coarse abuse. It did

not produce the effect upon me that he expected and intended; the

sentiment I cherished secretly for you was only increased and

strengthened by its persuasive eloquence, and I resolved to reward you

for all that you had suffered for my sake. Knowing my husband to be

perfectly absorbed in his most recent conquest, and so oblivious of me

that there was no danger of his becoming aware of my absence from the

Château de Bruyères, I have ventured to come to Poitiers; for I have

heard you express fictitious love so admirably, that I long to know

whether you can be as eloquent and convincing when you speak for

yourself.”

“Mme. la Marquise,” said Leander, in his sweetest tones, sinking

gracefully on his knees, upon a cushion at the feet of the lady, who

had let herself fall languidly into a low easy-chair, as if exhausted

by the extreme effort that her confession had been to her modesty.

“Madame, or rather most lovely queen and deity, what can mere empty

words, counterfeit passion, imaginary raptures, conceived and written

in cold blood by the poets, and make-believe sighs, breathed out at the

feet of an odious actress, all powdered and painted, whose eyes are

wandering absently around the theatre—what can these be beside the

living words that gush out from the soul, the fire that burns in the

veins and arteries, the hyperboles of an exalted passion, to which the

whole universe cannot furnish images brilliant and lofty enough to

apply to its idol, and the aspirations of a wildly loving heart, that

would fain break forth from the breast that contains it, to serve as a

footstool for the dear object of its adoration? You deign to say,

celestial _marquise_, that I express with some feeling the fictitious

love in the pieces I play. Shall I tell you why it is so? Because I

never look at, or even think of, the actress whom I seem to address—my

thoughts soar far above and beyond her—and I speak to my own perfect

ideal; to a being, noble, beautiful, _spirituelle_ as yourself, Mme. la

Marquise! It is you, in fine, _you_ that I see and love under the name

of Silvie, Doralice, Isabelle, or whatever it may chance to be; they

are only your phantoms for me.”

With these words Leander, who was too good an actor to neglect the

pantomime that should accompany such a declaration, bent down over the

hand that the _marquise_ had allowed him to take, and covered it with

burning kisses; which delicate attention was amiably received, and his

real love-making seemed to be as pleasing to her ladyship as even he

could have desired.

The eastern sky was all aflame with the radiance of the coming sun when

Leander, well wrapped in his warm cloak, was driven back to Poitiers.

As he lifted a corner of one of the carefully lowered curtains, to see

which side of the town they were approaching, he caught sight of the

Marquis de Bruyères and the Baron de Sigognac, still at some distance,

who were walking briskly along the road towards him, on their way to

the spot designated for the duel.

Leander let the curtain drop, so as not to be seen by the marquis, who

was almost grazed by the carriage wheels as they rolled by him, and a

satisfied smile played round his lips; he was revenged—the beating was

atoned for now.

The place selected for the hostile meeting between the Baron de

Sigognac and the Duke of Vallombreuse was sheltered from the cold north

wind by a high wall, which also screened the combatants from the

observation of those passing along the road. The ground was firm, well

trodden down, without stones, tufts of grass, or inequalities of any

kind, which might be in the way of the swordsmen, and offered every

facility to men of honour to murder each other after the most correct

and approved fashion. The Duke of Vallombreuse and the Chevalier de

Vidalinc, followed by a surgeon, arrived at the rendezvous only a few

seconds after the others, and the four gentlemen saluted each other

with the haughty courtesy and frigid politeness becoming to well-bred

men meeting for such a purpose. The duke’s countenance was expressive

of the most careless indifference, as he felt perfect confidence in his

own courage and skill. The baron was equally cool and collected, though

it was his first duel, and a little nervousness or agitation would have

been natural and excusable. The Marquis de Bruyères watched him with

great satisfaction, auguring good things for their side from his quiet

_sang-froid_. Vallombreuse immediately threw off his cloak and hat, and

unfastened his _pourpoint_, in which he was closely imitated by de

Sigognac. The marquis and the chevalier measured the swords of the

combatants, which were found to be of equal length, and then each

second placed his principal in position, and put his sword in his hand.

“Fall to, gentlemen, and fight like men of spirit, as you are,” said

the marquis.

“A needless recommendation that,” chimed in the Chevalier de Vidalinc;

“they go at it like lions—-we shall have a superb duel.”

The Duke of Vallombreuse, who, in his inmost heart, could not help

despising de Sigognac more than a little, and had imagined that he

should find in him but a weak antagonist, was astonished when he

discovered the strength of the baron’s sword, and could not deny to

himself that he wielded a firm and supple blade, which baffled his own

with the greatest ease—that he was, in fine, a “foeman worthy of his

steel.” He became more careful and attentive; then tried several

feints, which were instantly detected. At the least opening he left,

the point of de Sigognac’s sword, rapid as lightning in its play,

darted in upon him, necessitating the exercise of all his boasted skill

to parry it. He ventured an attack, which was so promptly met, and his

weapon so cleverly struck aside, that he was left exposed to his

adversary’s thrust, and but for throwing himself back out of reach, by

a sudden, violent movement, he must have received it full in his

breast. From that instant all was changed for the young duke; he had

believed that he would be able to direct the combat according to his

own will and pleasure, but, instead of that, he was forced to make use

of all his skill and address to defend himself. He had believed that

after a few passes he could wound de Sigognac, wherever he chose, by a

thrust which, up to that time, he had always found successful; but,

instead of that, he had hard work to avoid being wounded himself.

Despite his efforts to remain calm and cool, he was rapidly growing

angry; he felt himself becoming nervous and feverish, while the baron,

perfectly at his ease and unmoved, seemed to take a certain pleasure in

irritating him by the irreproachable excellence of his fence.

“Sha’n’t we do something in this way too, while our friends are

occupied?” said the chevalier to the marquis.

“It is very cold this morning. Suppose we fight a little also, if only

to warm ourselves up, and set our blood in motion.”

“With all my heart,” the marquis replied; “we could not do better.”

The chevalier was superior to the Marquis de Bruyères in the noble art

of fencing, and after a few passes had sent the latter’s sword flying

out of his hand. As no enmity existed between them, they stopped there

by mutual consent, and turned their attention again to de Sigognac and

Vallombreuse. The duke, sore pressed by the close play of the baron,

had fallen back several feet from his original position. He was

becoming weary, and beginning to draw panting breaths. From time to

time, as their swords clashed violently together, bluish sparks flew

from them; but the defence was growing perceptibly weaker, and de

Sigognac was steadily forcing the duke to give way before his attack.

When he saw the state of affairs, the Chevalier de Vidalinc turned very

pale, and began to feel really anxious for his friend, who was so

evidently getting the worst of it.

“Why the devil doesn’t he try that wonderful thrust he learned from

Girolamo of Naples?” murmured he. “This confounded Gascon cannot

possibly know anything about that.”

As if inspired by the same thought, the young duke did, at that very

moment, try to put it into execution; but de Sigognac, aware of what he

was preparing to do, not only prevented but anticipated him, and

touched and wounded his adversary in the arm—his sword going clean

through it.

The pain was so intense that the duke’s fingers could no longer grasp

his sword, and it fell to the ground. The baron, with the utmost

courtesy, instantly desisted, although he was entitled by the rules of

the code to follow up his blow with another—for the duel does not

necessarily come to an end with the first blood drawn. He turned the

point of his sword to the ground, put his left hand on his hip, and

stood silently awaiting his antagonist’s pleasure. But Vallombreuse

could not hold the sword which his second had picked up and presented

to him, after a nod of acquiescence from de Sigognac; and he turned

away to signify that he had had enough. Whereupon, the marquis and the

baron, after bowing politely to the others, set forth quietly to walk

back to the town.

CHAPTER X.

A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE

After the surgeon had bandaged his injured arm, and arranged a sling

for it, the Duke of Vallombreuse was put carefully into a chair, which

had been sent for in all haste, to be taken home. His wound was not in

the least a dangerous one, though it would deprive him of the use of

his right hand for some time to come, for the blade had gone quite

through the forearm; but, most fortunately, without severing any

important tendons or arteries. He suffered a great deal of pain from it

of course, but still more from his wounded pride; and he felt furiously

and unreasonably angry with everything and everybody about him. It

seemed to be somewhat of a relief to him to swear savagely at his

bearers, and call them all the hardest names he could think of,

whenever he felt the slightest jar, as they carried him slowly towards

home, though they were walking as steadily as men could do, and

carefully avoiding every inequality in the road. When at last he

reached his own house, he was not willing to be put to bed, as the

surgeon advised, but lay down upon a lounge instead, where he was made

as comfortable as was possible by his faithful Picard, who was in

despair at seeing the young duke in such a condition; astonished as

well, for nothing of the kind had ever happened before, in all the many

duels he had fought; and the admiring valet had shared his master’s

belief that he was invincible. The Chevalier de Vidalinc sat in a low

chair beside his friend, and gave him from time to time a spoonful of

the tonic prescribed by the surgeon, but refrained from breaking the

silence into which he had fallen. Vallombreuse lay perfectly still for

a while; but it was easy to see, in spite of his affected calmness,

that his blood was boiling with suppressed rage. At last he could

restrain himself no longer, and burst out violently: “Oh! Vidalinc,

this is too outrageously aggravating! to think that that contemptible,

lean stork, who has flown forth from his ruined château so as not to

die of starvation in it, should have dared to stick his long bill into

me! I have encountered, and conquered, the best swordsmen in France,

and never returned from the field before with so much as a scratch, or

without leaving my adversary stretched lifeless on the ground, or

wounded and bleeding in the arms of his friends.”

“But you must remember that the most favoured and the bravest of

mortals have their unlucky days, Vallombreuse,” answered the chevalier

sententiously, “and Dame Fortune does not _always_ smile, even upon her

prime favourites. Until now you have never had to complain of her

frowns, for you have been her pampered darling all your life long.”

“Isn’t it too disgraceful,” continued Vallombreuse, growing more and

more heated, “that this ridiculous buffoon—this grotesque country

clown—who takes such abominable drubbings on the stage, and has never

in his life known what it was to associate with gentlemen, should have

managed to get the best of the Duke of Vallombreuse, hitherto by common

accord pronounced invincible? He must be a professional prize-fighter,

disguised as a strolling mountebank.”

“There can be no doubt about his real rank,” said Vidalinc, “for the

Marquis de Bruyères guarantees it; but I must confess that his

unequalled performance to-day filled me with astonishment; it was

simply marvellous. Neither Girolamo nor Paraguante, those two

world-renowned swordsmen, could have surpassed it. I watched him

closely, and I tell you that even they could not have withstood him. It

took all your remarkable skill—which has been so greatly enhanced by

the Neapolitan’s instructions—to avoid being mortally wounded; why your

defeat was a victory in my eyes, in that it was not a more overwhelming

one.”

“I don’t know how I am to wait for this wound to heal,” the duke said,

after a short pause, “I am so impatient to provoke him again, and have

the opportunity to revenge myself.”

“That would be a very hazardous proceeding, and one that I should

strongly advise you not to attempt,” Vidalinc replied in an earnest

tone. “Your sword-arm will scarcely be as strong as before for a long

time I fear, and that would seriously diminish your chances of success.

This Baron de Sigognac is a very formidable antagonist, and will be

still more so, for you, now that he knows your tactics; and besides,

the confidence in himself which his first victory naturally gives him

would be another thing in his favour. Honour is satisfied, and the

encounter was a serious one for you. Let the matter rest here, I

beseech you!”

Vallombreuse could not help being secretly convinced of the justice of

these remarks, but was not willing to avow it openly, even to his most

intimate friend. He was a sufficiently accomplished swordsman himself

to appreciate de Sigognac’s wonderful prowess, and he knew that it far

surpassed his own much vaunted skill, though it enraged him to have to

recognise this humiliating fact. He was even obliged to acknowledge, in

his inmost heart, that he owed his life to the generous forbearance of

his hated enemy; who might have taken it just as well as not, but had

spared him, and been content with giving him only a flesh wound, just

severe enough to put him hors-de-combat, without doing him any serious

injury. This magnanimous conduct, by which a less haughty nature would

have been deeply touched, only served to irritate the young duke’s

pride, and increase his resentment. To think that he, the valiant and

puissant Duke of Vallombreuse, had been conquered, humiliated, wounded!

the bare idea made him frantic. Although he said nothing further to his

companion about his revenge, his mind was filled with fierce projects

whereby to obtain it, and he swore to himself to be even yet with the

author of his present mortification—if not in one way, then in another;

for injuries there be that are far worse than mere physical wounds and

hurts.

“I shall cut a sorry figure enough now in the eyes of the fair

Isabelle,” said he at last, with a forced laugh, “with my arm here run

through and rendered useless by the sword of her devoted gallant.

Cupid, weak and disabled, never did find much favour with the Graces,

you know. But oh! how charming and adorable she seems to me, this

sweet, disdainful Isabelle! I am actually almost grateful to her for

resisting me so; for, if she had yielded, I should have been tired of

her by this time, I fancy. Her nature certainly cannot be a base,

ordinary one, or she would never have refused thus the advances of a

wealthy and powerful nobleman, who is ready to lavish upon her

everything that heart could desire, and whose own personal attractions

are not to be despised; if the universal verdict of the fair sex of all

ranks can be relied upon. There is a certain respect and esteem mingled

with my passionate admiration for her, that I have never felt before

for any woman, and it is very sweet to me. But how in the world are we

to get rid of this confounded young sprig of nobility, her

self-constituted champion? May the devil fly away with him!”

“It will not be an easy matter,” the chevalier replied, and especially

now that he is upon his guard. “But even if you did succeed in getting

rid of him, Isabelle’s love for him would still be in your way, and you

ought to know, better than most men, how obstinate a woman can be in

her devoted attachment to a man.”

“Oh! if I could only kill this miserable baron,” continued

Vallombreuse, not at all impressed by the chevalier’s last remark, “I

could soon win the favour of this virtuous young person, in spite of

all her little prudish airs and graces. Nothing is so quickly forgotten

as a defunct suitor.”

These were by no means the chevalier’s sentiments, but he refrained

from pursuing the subject then, wishing to soothe, rather than

irritate, his suffering friend.

“You must first get well as fast as you can,” he said, “and it will be

time enough then for us to discuss the matter. All this talking wearies

you, and does you no good. Try to get a little nap now, and not excite

yourself so. The surgeon will tax me with imprudence, and call me a bad

nurse, I’m afraid, if I don’t manage to keep you more quiet—mentally as

well as physically.”

His patient, yielding with rather an ill grace to this sensible advice,

sank back wearily upon his pillows, closed his eyes, and soon fell

asleep—where we will leave him, enjoying his much needed repose.

Meantime the Marquis de Bruyères and de Sigognac had quietly returned

to their hotel, where, like well-bred gentlemen, they did not breathe

even a hint of what had taken place. But walls have ears they say, and

eyes as well it would appear, for they certainly see as much as they

ever hear. In the neighbourhood of the apparently solitary, deserted

spot where the duel had taken place, more than one inquisitive, hidden

observer had closely watched the progress of the combat, and had not

lost a moment after it was over in spreading the news of it; so that by

breakfast-time all Poitiers was in a flutter of excitement over the

intelligence that the Duke of Vallombreuse had been wounded in a duel

with an unknown adversary, and was exhausting itself in vain

conjectures as to who the valiant stranger could possibly be. No one

thought of de Sigognac, who had led the most retired life imaginable

ever since his arrival; remaining quietly at the hotel all day, and

showing only his stage mask, not his own face, at the theatre in the

evening.

Several gentlemen of his acquaintance sent to inquire ceremoniously

after the Duke of Vallombreuse, giving their messengers instructions to

endeavour to get some information from his servants about the

mysterious duel, but they were as taciturn as the mutes of a seraglio,

for the very excellent and sufficient reason that they knew nothing

what ever about it. The young duke, by his great wealth, his

overweening pride, his uncommon good looks, and his triumphant success

among fair ladies everywhere, habitually excited much secret jealousy

and hatred among his associates, which not one of them dared to

manifest openly—but they were mightily pleased by his present

discomfiture.

It was the first check he had ever experienced, and all those who had

been hurt or offended by his arrogance—and they were legion—now

rejoiced in his mortification. They could not say enough in praise of

his successful antagonist, though they had never seen him, nor had any

idea as to what manner of man he might be. The ladies, who nearly all

had some cause of complaint against the haughty young noble man, as he

was wont to boast loudly of his triumphs, and basely betray the favours

that had been accorded to him in secret, were full of enthusiastic and

tender admiration for this victorious champion of a woman’s virtue,

who, they felt, had unconsciously avenged for them many scornful

slights, and they would have gladly crowned him with laurel and myrtle,

and rewarded him with their sweetest smiles and most distinguished

favour.

However, as nothing on this terraqueous and sublunary globe can long

remain a secret, it soon transpired through Maître Bilot, who had it

direct from Jacques, the valet of the Marquis de Bruyères, who had been

present during the momentous interview between his master and the Baron

de Sigognac, that the duke’s brave antagonist was no other than the

redoubtable Captain Fracasse; or rather, a young nobleman in disguise,

who for the sake of a love affair had become a member of Hérode’s

troupe of travelling comedians. As to his real name, Jacques had

unfortunately forgotten it, further than that it ended in “_gnac_,” as

is not uncommon in Gascony, but on the point of his rank he was

positive. This delightfully romantic and “ower-true tale” was received

with acclamations by the good folk of Poitiers. They were fairly

overflowing with admiration for and interest in the valiant gentleman

who wielded such a powerful blade, and the devoted lover who had left

everything to follow his mistress, and when Captain Fracasse appeared

upon the stage that evening, the prolonged and enthusiastic applause

that greeted him, and was renewed over and over again before he was

allowed to speak a single word, bore witness unmistakably to the favour

with which he was regarded; while the ladies rose in their boxes and

waved their handkerchiefs, even the grandest and most dignified among

them, and brought the palms of their gloved hands daintily together in

his honour. It was a real ovation, and best of all a spontaneous one.

Isabelle also received a perfect storm of applause, which alarmed and

had nearly overcome the retiring young actress, who blushed crimson in

her embarrassment, as she made a modest curtsey in acknowledgment of

the compliment.

Hérode was overjoyed, and his face shone like the full moon as he

rubbed his hands together and grinned broadly in his exuberant delight;

for the receipts were immense, and the cash-box was full to bursting.

Everybody had rushed to the theatre to see and applaud the now famous

Captain Fracasse—the capital actor and high-spirited gentleman—who

feared neither cudgels nor swords; and had not shrunk from encountering

the dreaded Duke of Vallombreuse, the terror of all the country round,

in mortal combat, as the champion of offended beauty. Blazius, however,

did not share the tyrant’s raptures, but on the contrary foreboded no

good from all this, for he feared, and not without reason, the

vindictive character of the Duke of Vallombreuse, and was apprehensive

that he would find some means of revenging himself for his defeat at de

Sigognac’s hands that would be detrimental to the troupe. “Earthen

vessels,” said he, “should be very careful how they get in the way of

metal ones, lest, if they rashly encounter them, they be ignominiously

smashed in the shock.” But Hérode, relying upon the support and

countenance of the Baron de Sigognac and the Marquis de Bruyères,

laughed at his fears, and called him faint-heart, a coward, and a

croaker.

When the comedians returned to their hotel, after the play was over, de

Sigognac accompanied Isabelle to the door of her room, and, contrary to

her usual custom, the young actress invited him to enter it with her.

When they found themselves quite alone, and safe from all curious eyes,

Isabelle turned to de Sigognac, took his hand in both of hers, and

pressing it warmly said to him in a voice trembling with emotion,

“Promise me never to run such a fearful risk for my sake again, de

Sigognac; promise me! Swear it, if you really do love me as you say.”

“That is a thing I cannot do,” the baron replied, “even to please you,

sweet Isabelle! If ever any insolent fellow dares to show a want of

proper respect for you, I shall surely chastise him for it, as I ought,

be he what he may—duke, or even prince.”

“But remember, de Sigognac, that I am nothing but an actress,

inevitably exposed to affronts from the men that haunt the _coulisses_.

It is the generally received opinion, which alas! is but too well

justified by the usual ways of the members of my profession, that an

actress is no better than she should be; in fine, not a proper

character nor worthy of respect. From the moment that a woman steps

upon the stage she becomes public property, and even if she be really

pure and virtuous it is universally believed that she only affects it

for a purpose. These things are hard and bitter, but they must be

borne, since it is impossible to change them. In future trust to me, I

pray you, to repel those who would force their unwelcome attentions

upon me in the green-room, or endeavour to make their way into my

dressing-room. A sharp rap over the knuckles with a corset board from

me will be quite as efficacious as for you to draw your sword in my

behalf.”

“But I am not convinced,” said de Sigognac, with a smile; “I must still

believe, sweet Isabelle, that the sword of a chivalrous ally would be

your best weapon of defence, and I beg you not to deprive me of the

precious privilege of being your devoted knight and champion.”

Isabelle was still holding de Sigognac’s hand, and she now raised her

lovely eyes, full of mute supplication, to meet his adoring gaze,

hoping yet to draw from him, the much desired promise. But the baron

was incorrigible; where honour was concerned he was as firm and

unyielding as a Spanish hidalgo, and he would have braved a thousand

deaths rather than have allowed an affront to the lady of his love to

pass unpunished; he wished that the same deference and respect should

be accorded to Isabelle upon the stage, as to a duchess in her

drawing-room.

“Come, de Sigognac, be reasonable,” pleaded the young actress, “and

promise me not to expose yourself to such danger again for so frivolous

a cause. Oh! what anxiety and anguish I endured as I awaited your

return this morning. I knew that you had gone out to fight with that

dreadful duke, who is held in such universal terror here; Zerbine told

me all about it. Cruel that you are to torture my poor heart so! That

is always the way with men; they never stop to think of what we poor,

loving women must suffer when their pride is once aroused! off they go,

as fierce as lions, deaf to our sobs and blind to our tears. Do you

know, that if you had been killed I should have died too?”

The tears that filled Isabelle’s eyes, and the excessive trembling of

her voice, showed that she was in earnest, and that she had not even

yet recovered her usual calmness and composure. More deeply touched

than words can express by her emotion, and the love for himself it bore

witness to, de Sigognac, encircling her slender form with the arm that

was free, drew her gently to him, and softly kissed her fair forehead,

whilst he could feel, as he pressed her to his breast, how she was

panting and trembling. He held her thus tenderly embraced for a

blissful few seconds of silent ecstasy, which a less respectful lover

would doubtless have presumed upon; but he would have scorned to take

advantage of the unreserved confidence bestowed upon him in a moment of

such agitation and sorrowful excitement.

“Be comforted, dear Isabelle,” said he at last, tenderly. “I was not

killed you see, nor even hurt; and I actually wounded my adversary,

though he does pass for a tolerably good swordsman hereabouts, I

believe.”

“Yes, I well know what a strong hand is yours, and what a brave, noble

heart,” Isabelle replied; “and I do not scruple to acknowledge that I

love you for it with all my heart; feeling sure that you will respect

my frank avowal, and not endeavour to take advantage of it. When I

first saw you, de Sigognac, dispirited and desolate, in that dreary,

half-ruined château, where your youth was passing in sadness and

solitude, I felt a tender interest in you suddenly spring into being in

my heart; had you been happy and prosperous I should have been afraid

of you, and have shrunk timidly from your notice. When we walked

together in that neglected garden, where you held aside the brambles so

carefully for me to pass unscathed, you gathered and presented to me a

little wild rose—the only thing you had to give me. As I raised it to

my lips, before putting it in my bosom, and kissed it furtively under

pretence of inhaling its fragrance, I could not keep back a tear that

dropped upon it, and secretly and in silence I gave you my heart in

exchange for it.”

As these entrancing words fell upon his ear, de Sigognac impulsively

tried to kiss the sweet lips so temptingly near his own, but Isabelle

withdrew herself gently from his embrace; not with any show of

excessive prudery, but with a modest timidity that no really gallant

lover would endeavour to overcome by force.

“Yes, I love you, de Sigognac,” she continued, in a voice that was

heavenly sweet, “and with all my heart, but not as other women love;

your glory is my aim, not my own pleasure. I am perfectly willing to be

looked upon as your mistress; it is the only thing that would account

satisfactorily to the world at large for your presence in this troupe

of strolling players. And why should I care for slanderous reports, so

long as I keep my own self-esteem, and know myself to be virtuous and

true? If there were really a stain upon my purity it would kill me; I

could not survive it. It is the princely blood in my veins doubtless

that gives rise to such pride in me; very ridiculous, perhaps, in an

actress, but such is my nature.”

This enchanting avowal, which would not have taught anything new to a

more conceited or bolder suitor, but was a wonderful revelation to de

Sigognac, who had scarcely dared to hope that his passionate, devoted

love might some day be returned, filled him with such rapturous,

overwhelming delight, that he was almost beside himself. A burning

flush overspread his usually pale face; he seemed to see flames before

his eyes; there was a strange ringing in his ears, and his heart

throbbed so violently that he felt half suffocated. Losing control of

himself in this moment of ecstasy, so intense that it was not unmixed

with pain, he suddenly seized Isabelle passionately in his arms,

strained her trembling form convulsively to his heaving breast, and

covered her face and neck with burning kisses. She did not even try to

struggle against this fierce embrace, but, throwing her head back,

looked fixedly at him, with eyes full of sorrow and reproach. From

those lovely eyes, clear and pure as an angel’s, great tears welled

forth and rolled down over her blanched cheeks, and a suppressed sob

shook her quivering frame as a sudden faintness seemed to come over

her. The young baron, distracted at the sight of her grief, and full of

keen self-reproach, put her gently down into a low, easy-chair standing

near, and kneeling before her, took in both his own the hands that she

abandoned to him, and passionately implored her pardon; pleading that a

momentary madness had taken possession of him, that he repented of it

bitterly, and was ready to atone for his offence by the most perfect

submission to her wishes.

“You have hurt me sadly, my friend!” said Isabelle at last, with a

deep-drawn sigh. “I had such perfect confidence in your delicacy and

respect. The frank, unreserved avowal of my love for you ought to have

been enough, and have shown you clearly, by its very openness, that I

trusted you entirely. I believed that you would understand me and let

me love you in my own way, without troubling my tenderness for you by

vulgar transports. Now, you have robbed me of my feeling of security. I

do not doubt your words, but I shall no longer dare to yield to the

impulses of my own heart. And yet it was so sweet to me to be with you,

to watch you, to listen to your dear voice, and to follow the course of

your thoughts as I saw them written in your eyes. I wished to share

your troubles and anxieties, de Sigognac, leaving your pleasures to

others. I said to myself, among all these coarse, dissolute, presuming

men that hover about us, there is one who is different—one who believes

in purity, and knows how to respect it in the woman he honours with his

love. I dared to indulge in a sweet dream—even I, Isabelle the actress,

pursued as I am constantly by a gallantry that is odious to me—I dared

to indulge in the too sweet dream of enjoying with you a pure mutual

love. I only asked to be your faithful companion, to cheer and comfort

you in your struggles with an adverse fate until you had reached the

beginning of happiness and prosperity, and then to retire into

obscurity again, when you had plenty of new friends and followers, and

no longer needed me. You see that I was not very exacting.”

“Isabelle, my adored Isabelle,” cried de Sigognac, “every word that you

speak makes me reproach myself more and more keenly for my fault, and

the pain I have given you. Rest assured, my own darling, that you have

nothing further to fear from me. I am not worthy to kiss the traces of

your footprints in the dust; but yet, I pray you, listen to me! Perhaps

you do not fully understand all my thoughts and intentions, and will

forgive me when you do. I have nothing but my name, which is as pure

and spotless as your sweet self, and I offer it to you, my own beloved

Isabelle, if you will deign to accept it.”

He was still kneeling at her feet, and at these ardently spoken words

she leaned towards him, took his upraised face between her hands with a

quick, passionate movement, and kissed him fervently on the lips; then

she sprang to her feet and began, hurriedly and excitedly, pacing back

and forth in the chamber.

“You will be my wife, Isabelle?” cried de Sigognac in agitated tones,

thrilling in every nerve from the sweet contact of her pure, lovely

mouth—fresh as a flower, ardent as a flame.

“Never, never,” answered Isabelle, with a clear ring of rapture in her

voice. “I will show myself worthy of such an honour by refusing it. I

did mistake you for a moment, my dearest friend; I did mistake you;

forgive me. Oh! how happy you have made me; what celestial joy fills my